


The Condor [Working Title]

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Original Work
Genre: (not actual porn with food involved just lots of food descriptions that will prolly make you hungry), Alien/Human Relationships, Food Porn, Military Jargon, Nautical Memoir, POV First Person, Piracy, Science Fiction, Slavery, Space Pirates, Threats of Violence, but in SPAAAAAAAACE...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:55:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: It was fairly common knowledge that the condor was a bird that fed on carrion. The pirate ship of the same name was no different. An original work by B.T. Light (SmutWithPlot), and part of the Kaeguri Chronicles.Warning: This is a very dark, very heavy story and not for the squeamish.





	1. The Condor

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as an AU/sequel to a thing that died a long time ago that almost NO ONE has ever heard of, but I've since mutated it beyond recognition, so it's hardly worth mentioning, except as an Easter egg if someone might happen to know what I'm referencing. The Captain, First Mate and ship name are from this other thing, and the retranslation aren't terribly original, but QUITE FRANKLY, I would be surprised if anyone figures it out.
> 
> And apologies to any of you that have me on subscription -- I legit didn't know you could post original works on AO3 until like... Two weeks ago. These have been sitting on FictionPress for literally years.

From my understanding, the condor was a bird that fed on carrion. The ship of the same name was no different. A connoisseur of tall tales and stories myself, I was familiar with the small carrier, but it was more a thing of the Murcadian Territories than Kyulac. The man who ran the dark carrier was rarely seen, but anyone who had the misfortune to face him in battle said he was a terror to the stars – some said the Devil himself. So when they told me I'd been summoned to the bridge of the stranger's vessel, I was understandably terrified.

"Keep it moving," growled a tough-looking bitch. What femininity she possessed was limited to the long, banana locks that spilled over her shoulders, and a blessed bosom hiding behind her shielder. The rest of her was hard and structured, boasting power and violence embodied by the unnecessarily large blaster she would shove into my back when I wasn't moving fast enough to please her. I hurried my pace, and we wound through the streets of Neris, the small port town in which I had spent the measly nineteen years I'd been in the universe. It wasn't the biggest port on the planet, but if you wanted a quiet spot from which to trade the planet's goods away from watching eyes, it was as good as any. Kyulac as a whole was in a sweet spot at the end of human country: close enough that Good Portus supplied us with currency, but far enough that the Cerulean Guard didn't bother us too much. Our Tahrusian neighbors kept us safe from the nastier types from Chaidan, but it wasn't unheard of that 'discreet' business types ventured onto our shores for a quiet buck.

But the _Condor_ was the kind of ship that was spoken of alongside villains like 'the Toad King', a greenie Kaeguri who they said had a taste for sadism and backstabbing that was more befitting a Xoac, and perched on a throne of his own making on the Saampi end of the Chaidan system, starting wars and turning brothers and partners on each other for his own sick amusement. Or 'the Black Bitch', a human mercenary who some claimed was as untouchable as she was unreachable, a phantom of an operative that left death and destruction in her wake - man, woman, and child; of her own kind, and those that weren't. They say she even worked with Rachni and had been trained by a Xoac slave trader as an assassin before she killed him for a reason the sources couldn't agree on. The _Condor_ , it's said, was cursed with an expendable crew. The Captain was cruel, and hard on his men — whether this was because of the curse, or the cause of it was debatable, and I had partaken in the theoretical debate numerous times myself.

As we wandered the port, I found myself wondering if my 'escort' was lost, or trying to disorientate me. I grew up wandering the boardwalk (much to my mother's displeasure - she was always afraid I would never come back) and marked about eight different shortcuts we could have taken to get to wherever it was she was going. And especially without doubling back. Maybe she was trying to milk my torture for as long as she could. Perhaps this was the only way she could entertain herself.

Eventually, she actually directed me to a mounting board, and I looked up at the modest star cruiser. Long ago, the paint had been white, but a solemn shift in management changed her colors to the steely gray of the clouded sky, a throwback to when ships still sailed only in the seas. Up above, the helm was blinding bright, and ironically my first thought was of a lighthouse. I could make out a few crew wandering about, but a lone figure stood by the helm and looking at it, I swear I could just make out two glowing yellow eyes peering down at me. I felt a shiver in my soul and made a note to use the image in a horror tale - if I made it through this adventure - but moved quickly up the gangplank before the blonde bitch behind me lost her patience.

An expansive hangar was lined with skimmers and rides of the same steely gray, though they were accented in variations of storm blue, swamp green, and blood red. A single white steed stood alone, its markings an inconspicuously bright blue. I wasn't entirely sure if it wasn't a Cerulean Guard's ride, but if it was, it was an old model that Portus no longer sent out for tax collections. I took it in with a curious eye as we made our way to the back, the crew stepping out of our way, doubtless recognizing that for some reason I was a dead man walking. The bitch behind me grunted at a ladder, so I started up. I found it a bit unsettling that she could manage to keep her weapon trained on me as she followed, but decided it was best not to mention it.

The corridors were lined in emerald carpets, the walls freshly scrubbed (much better kept than most ships I'd been in, I noted) and lined in shields and maps and the occasional piece of artwork; they didn't seem to have any sort of rhyme or reason, but I didn't expect the trophy hall of a pirate ship to be too organized. What crew we saw stopped to bow a head and mutter a greeting to the bitch behind me, but she never answered them. She did, however, growl at me to 'Turn left', and then at the end of another hall, 'Stop.' I did, and she rapped her knuckles on a door.

"Who is it?" called an impatient, female voice.

"Rhea, Mistress. Got that one we heard tell about." She smirked at me – a terrifying sight. "The Storyteller."

My face went pale as a sheet. That's why I was here? For stories I stole from strangers? Why would they care about tall tales? As it was, my throat had closed up, so I couldn't speak for my defense. Before I could get my breath back, the woman inside ordered us to 'Come in'. Rhea – an oddly pretty name – pushed a button and the hatch flew open. At the end of the room, a large desk had been somehow crushed into the room; a woman – fairly young, though perhaps not for a pirate – stared at me with honeyed eyes. Her skin was a muddy brown, and dark, sapphire locks cascaded around her face, adorned with charms and threads and likely a weapon or seven. An ancient, raw ore crystal hung at the neck of her dark blue ship suit.

"Rhea, tell the Captain he's here. I'll send him to the bridge if I like his answers." She looked at me, and I felt a chill down my spine. "If not... He won't need to be bothered."

Even Rhea shuddered. "Aye, Mistress." She excused herself and disappeared behind me.

"Sit down," the moor said to me, and I quietly took a small chair.

She returned to whatever paperwork she'd been working on before Rhea's interruption, and I found my eyes wandering around the room. The walls were lined in bookshelves, crammed with tomes and scrolls, and even a few chests here and there. Behind her, a map stretched out on the wall, scattered with planets in a pattern I didn't recognize. Not that I was an astronomical cartographer, but I'd honestly never seen any of the shapes before in my life. And I dabbled.

My mind raced, and I quickly tried to figure out what I could from what I did and did not know. For one, the strange maps (along with the name of the ship) told me that they traveled… way farther than I knew. So… pirates was likely a very good rumor. Her skin was a natural human tone, but the jeweled hair was different. I heard there was an outcropping of humans out past Kirach that had jewel-toned hair, and were rather popular in Skylark. But then, anything was popular in Skylark, considering it was the only place you could find a great number of things — human slaves among them.

She gave a growl of a sigh, and set the papers aside, the fluttering drawing my eye back to her. I noticed a worried look on her face as she pulled out a book and opened it to its last entry. She readied her pen and looked to me, her eyes taking on a hard shape.

"My sources tell me you've been telling stories of a certain Black Bitch. You want to tell me this story?"

I gulped. I wondered idly whether lying would be in my best interest. I had no idea what version of the story had piqued their interest, or why, and much less what that meant for my well being. Did she want a fun tale, or was there more to the story than I knew?

"Well, it's not a terribly interesting story," I answered, a bit startled at my honesty. "Just things I've overheard, and... added to, miss."

Her mouth twitched, and she scribbled something. "Tell me the story."

I glanced up at the map, trying not to imagine that her hair would rise like the tentacles of an ancient beast to throttle my throat. "Appearances vary, so I won't bother with them," I said. She looked up at me, her expression indistinguishable, and I felt compelled to continue, even though I suddenly didn't want to. "Details on her various missions and 'jobs' vary from absurd to heartless. But it's a point of fact that she's unrepentant, and will do anything if you pay the price."

"Anything else?" She seemed bored. I worried about what that meant for my continuing existence.

"Ehrm… That she's indestructible? They say she was trained to be an assassin by a Xoac slave trader, out in the Murbian Wastelands." I shivered, remembering the gleam in the Kaeguri's eyes as he told the tale. Dark, and twisted. The FlyTrap he sipped on would have killed lesser beings (such as myself) and he seemed desperate to tell the story before it burst from his chest and took his life with it. "That the trader had originally snatched her up for conditioning, and eventual sale…" A common, disturbing start to a lot of nightmares. "…But that she piqued his interest after she managed to not be dead after he 'sampled the merchandise'." Which had the understood meaning of 'raped the shit out of her until he'd gotten his jollies off'. Xoac were dangerous creatures, born of lust and wrath, and they said that fighting actually _stimulated_ them sexually, so not only would they hunt you down with the speed and ferocity of a pack of panthers, all scaly skin, steely claws and bloody teeth, odds were good they would then make with the ravishing. Not a lot of things survived that, but if you did, they were the kind to sell their used toys on the black market. Hey, a lizard's got to make a living somehow, I supposed… Disgusting as it was.

The woman immediately stood, scribbling feverishly on her journal. "You don't say." She didn't seem to be particularly listening. "I wonder — is this a product of your demented imagination, young man, or something someone else shared with you?"

I tried my best to look offended, but in all honesty, I was flattered she thought I could invent something so… well. "Actually, someone shared it, Miss."

"And what did this person look like?" she asked, hurrying to a chest on the wall, peeking her face inside it. I saw it glow with a red light.

"Um... I didn't really get a good look at him. Ma'am," I added.

She glanced back at me, but only returned to her desk. "Was he big? Average? Weaselly?"

"Um... Well, he was Kaeguri, I could tell you that. A brownie."

She whispered something under her breath and scribbled it in her book. She pulled out a large map from the far side of the desk and grabbed another writing utensil. "Where did you see him?"

I eyed the chest she'd peered into, wondering what dark enchantment she had in place to make me speak so true. Normally… I wasn't so forthcoming. By now, I'd have come up with something more fantastic than 'I dunno, some brownie. Toads have the best stories sometimes'. Maybe the Xoac himself, seeking his lost pet, that might have been fun. But just as soon as they came to my head, they disappeared from my thoughts. "Um..." I looked down at my hands. Me and my big mouth. My mother said it was going to get me killed, and apparently my death warrant had already been signed. My morbid hobby had interested some pretty dangerous characters, and now I was being squeezed for details on a horror story that probably wasn't even true. And they were the kind of people that threw away used lemon wedges out the airlock if you know what I mean. "He was here... seven months ago? Came to my mother's pub with the _Egret_. Flying flock, they float from here through Chaidan to get to their Quickening nests. Then they go through Tahru territory for trade." Never in my life had I ever answered so honestly. It was terrifying, but I suddenly had the thought that I couldn't have lied if I wanted to.

The woman grabbed a jacket from her seat – the leather jacket of an officer of the ship. I swallowed as I took in the dark blue that matched her ship's suit, a number of pins and prizes decorating the lapels where an officer might wear medals, and she quickly slipped into it. I wondered exactly how high up in the food chain she was, and exactly how doomed I was.

"What's your name, boy?" she asked, a certain excitement growing in her voice.

"Meredith," I answered. And then I paled. I hadn't confessed that to anyone in many, many years. If I wasn't scared already… "Erm. But folks call me Doyle."

What the hell kind of spell did she have?

She gave a wicked grin. "Come along, Doyle. It's your lucky day. You get to meet the Captain."

xxxx

If Rhea's nods from the crew were respecting, this woman was feared. They greeted her only as 'Mistress', eyes hidden under their hands as they saluted. She, too, paid them no mind, but weaved through them with earnest, her sapphire coat trailing behind her, and me fighting to follow. It was hard – she knew where she was going, and they split around her as if her touch were poison. Twice, she glanced over her shoulder to see that I was still shadowing, her eyes glittering with the thrill of the hunt, and then she broke around a corner – I nearly tripped fighting to turn and get back behind her.

She smirked at me. "You're quick, Doyle. That's good."

I swallowed, not so sure it was.

She stepped aboard the bridge, and I stepped in behind her. The light that had greeted me out on the docks seemed warm and everywhere, the walls lined in white paint, making the brightness envelope all the more. A dark leather lined the seats, a side cannon (heavily souped, I wouldn't imagine) on either side. The helm glistened with lights and glowed with a massive, and rather comfy looking helmsman's seat before it. The dark port outside the window in comparison seemed lit only by the occasional street lamp or wandering party of spacers. A crewman was manning a radio at the right, another plotting a course on the left. They both stood and saluted as she entered.

The dark figure was still at the helm and turned himself toward us. I realized quickly he was a Kaeguri - a 'toad' as they were more commonly known, in less polite company. The too-broad shoulders were wrapped in the leather of status and lined in a bright yellow, though it went only halfway down his long torso. An equally handsome tricorn rested on his brow, but as he turned to face us, I realized something was horribly wrong.

I gaped in horror as the naturally green skin was infected by what looked like black scales that covered his temple and forehead, and traced the edges of his eyes. The eyes were the usual, glowing yellow of a toad, but the pupils were not the brown or green you would expect of a toad, but a ruby of blood-red, slitted more like the lizards that plagued his race. His face stretched out in typical Murbian fashion, his lips pursed, unamused.

The woman saluted him, her back straight. "Captain. Reporting with an update."

His eyes moved to me, and I froze. I had never met a Xoac, and I had never intended to. Not many who did had the pleasure of talking about it later. They said the eyes were capable of paralysis, and I realized this rumor was very true. But I managed to straighten myself and make a shaky salute.

"D-D-Doyle, s-sir!" I squeaked.

His left eye twitched. He moved toward me, stepping out from behind the helmsman's chair, and I was terrified to see legs that didn't belong to a Kaeguri. The huge, powerful limbs of the Xoac boasted unparalleled speed and power, as shining claws rested on the floor, a simple black cloth wrapping around the foot proper. A long, black scaled tail followed him, ebony glistening in the light, while a blood-red frill lined it down to the floor, where it whipped out behind him. My eyes wandered, wide and horrified, at the monstrosity before me, some kind of hellish compromise between the violent nightmare that was the Xoac and the tender, sensuous, and clever gypsy that was Kaeguri.

When he was three strides away from me, his entire body lunged toward me. I recoiled, but his face still stood before mine. He smelled of grease and oil and the stench of a swamp (and blood, but that might have been my imagination), and up close, his skin was mottled and clammy. I spotted two ears protruding from beneath his hat; his left was pierced with two silver rings, while his right boasted a larger one of gold.

"You ever been on a ship before, Doyle?" His voice was a dark, predatory purr, his lips sneering, flashes of sharp, pearly whites threatening as he spat my name. He had the jaws of the Xoac. His nostrils flared.

"N-not really, s-sir," I answered. Well, I'd been on a couple of vessels on a dare, but I hadn't actually been crew.

He straightened himself, looking down at me with those alien red eyes. "You will address me as 'Captain'," he warned. "Nothing more, nothing less. Understood?"

I nodded frantically. "Yes, sir – I mean, Captain. Yes, Captain!"

His eyes narrowed at me, and I could hear a low, growling sigh rumble from his chest. He turned his head to her, and I gulped as I saw how long his neck really was – it rose from his ship suit like a snake, the dressings of the coat's high collar framing it all the more. His ship suit was the sort of jumpsuit that was pretty standard for spacers of both private and military vessels, regardless of race. His was clean and tailored, but my wandering eye watched how his wide shoulders tapered to an impossibly thin waist, lined in belts, and then his legs burst out in the Hunter's form, granting him an ethereal grace that bordered on draconic. I realized his arms were draped behind him and shuddered at the thought of what kind of horrible claws he must be hiding.

"What is your report?"

"Doyle here has heard tell of the Black Bitch. And more importantly, a little backstory about a certain Xoac who may have been her mentor at one point."

Those malarian eyes turned on me, but they weren't so narrow. They looked me up and down almost in curiosity, and I saw the clever mind of the Kaeguri, darting from one side of my face to another, as if he could see into my soul, and sought what secrets it held.

"Did he say where he heard this tale from?"

I wondered madly about why exactly the crew of the _Condor_ was hunting down stories of the Black Bitch. And then a chill went down my spine when I realised the obvious: they wanted to hire her for something. I shuddered at the thought of what they could need doing so badly they were chasing ghost stories for the woman who would do anything, and kill anyone, if you only named the right price.

"Locally, actually," she reported with a twisted lip. "Heard a gypsy's tales down at his mother's pub, seven months ago. A brownie Kaeguri, flying with a flock, the _Egret_."

The Captain's chuckle sounded more like a rolling growl to my virgin ears. "Ooh, a flock, eh?" He turned to the crewman manning the radio. "Will! Get a message out to the crew in Chaidan. See if we can't find out where the _Egret_ nests." He stalked out of the bridge and then turned at the last moment to face the blue-coated woman. "Oh, and... Get the boy a birth, eh?"

He slipped out like an eel, but my eyes followed. His tail swished around him, and I spotted something very strange - he seemed to have a tuft of hair at the end of his tail, and it caught my attention.

When he'd finally gone, I dared to stare up at... my new boss?

She smirked at me. "Well, Doyle. You have two options. Join the crew..." She stopped, smiling a bit too warmly. "Well. Let's just say, they usually join the crew." She turned to the two on deck. "Right, boys?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Always, Mistress."

I blinked. Someone needed to redefine 'options'. Also, I was quite certain that press-ganging was illegal under Portian Law, but then I reminded myself of the vile creature that had just left the room. And what task it seemed he was about, and I realized that they were right - the other option was probably a rather dark, haunting version of 'or else'. "Then... I guess I join the crew."

"Excellent. Welcome aboard, Doyle."


	2. Greenie

I found myself back in the blue-haired moor's office, standing nervously at the door.

"You will refer to myself and the Second Mate as 'Mistress' and 'Master', accordingly; the Captain is referred to as such regardless of where you are, and the rest of your superiors will be addressed as 'sir' or 'ma'am'," she said, picking up a piece of paper and scribbling on it before stashing it away. She spoke as someone who didn't like saying the same thing more than once. "At present, you are the lowest ranking member aboard the ship and will be treated as such. If you're still here when we make port next, you will get your pay starting at a quarter share. If you prove yourself to be competent, you will eventually get promoted to half share; the better you work, the better your pay. As it is, we don't have room aboard this ship for extra cargo, so do try to keep up with your duties." There was a suggestion there as to what might happen if I proved unworthy of continuing employment. Without another word, she took a form of some kind from her desk and stepped out of the office, nodding for me to follow.

She made her way down a hall, and I followed like before. She dipped around another way, and I caught a glimpse of the white bridge before she ducked down – I almost missed the ladder but caught myself in time.

"This is officer country," she said, pointing up after I'd got my feet back on flat ground. "Unless you are specifically summoned by myself or the Captain, or there's a dire emergency, you are on no account to come up here. Understood?"

I nodded. Then, "Yes, Mistress."

It took a moment for her to decide that later was better than never. She nodded down the hall. "This way."

I could hear the noises of mechanics' work on the other side of the wall and wondered if Rhea hadn't gone a long way to scare me, or if I'd really been out of it. The ship didn't seem very big at all. The First Mate stopped at a door that was lit from inside and rapped her fingers on the door.

An older fellow – no younger than forties, I'd say, with graying, sandy blond hair and chocolate brown eyes – answered rather promptly.

"Mistress!" he greeted, a salute attaching to his brow.

"I have your replacement, Montgomery. I want a report after dinner – if you like him, he's yours."

I must have been a Chryssam gift or something. "Thank you, Mistress."

She nodded and then turned to me. "I'm leaving you here. Do try not to blow up our ship, alright?" She gave me a sinister wink and then disappeared up the way she came. I watched after her, and Montgomery did the same.

After a moment, he gave me a warm, tired grin. "Alright, kid. Get in here."

Growing up in a bar, I was used to kitchen work. Although technically it was called 'mess duty' – "because that's what the crew leaves on the table," as Montgomery, known more commonly as Cookie, explained. We were keeping the taps – coffee urns – full, and fueling a ragtag bunch of misfits who wandered in with well-meaning curses and complaints, and I learned through my serving of some simple meat and cheese sandwiches that the ship was due to pull out of port at 0400. _Local_ time.

"Four in the morning?" I asked the cook back in the kitchen. "Why on earth would we do that?"

Cookie chuckled. "Because the Captain wants to pull out at four in the morning." He eyed me seriously. "One thing to learn quick, boy – there's a lot of things the Captain does that might not make sense, but you're best off not saying anything about it. He knows this ship better than anyone, and always has his reasons. Even if we're not privy to them."

Besides Cookie, there was a second waiter – sorry, steward – named Timothy. He went simply by 'Tim', and was a tall, lanky young man, probably only four or five years older than I was, with bright orange-red hair and bold blue eyes. He wasn't bad to look at, and decidedly quick; I'm sure my mother would have loved him.

Despite the late hour, there always seemed to be a handful of the crew left lounging about. As the hours ticked by, I tried to make myself useful, but found that they ran a pretty tight ship – there wasn't much to do but... sit and chat with the crew.

"Another all-nighter..." sighed a woman maybe in her late twenties. She had mousy brown hair and bright hazel eyes – she was rather pretty, I had to admit; when I got some more status, I might have to ask her out. "The Captain's had me doing diagnostics checks thrice over." She smiled. "I promise you, we're not going to fall out of the sky any time soon."

The young man beside her grunted – he had dark hair and haunted green eyes. "Speak for yourself. That bastard's a madman. All it takes is a bad turn on his part, and we're all dead ducks."

I swallowed an awkward lump in my throat. The First's words whispered through my mind, and the phrase, 'guilty by association'. "You mean the... Captain?"

The two of them looked up at me. Mary smiled, tilting her head to the side.

"Right, you're the new catch. What's your name?"

"Uh… I go by Doyle."

She gave me a soft, sad smile. "Marylin. Go by Mary." She thumbed at the dark fellow beside her. "Don't let this idiot fool you. The Captain is very, VERY good at what he does." She glared sideways at the bridgeman. "We owe him our homes, food, and livelihood; pirates or not, there are far worse ways to make a living." She looked back to me, and I immediately found myself wondering what horrific situation it was that the _Condor_ had snatched her from that these pirates seemed so loving in comparison.

She nudged the bridgeman, and he scowled. He looked up at me. "I'm Scott. I should be in engineering, but we lost a navigator recently," he growled, rolling his eyes. Even Mary pursed her lips.

"It's a very tough job, navigator," she conceded. "Mostly, because the Captain is almost always on the bridge, and... Well, quite honestly, he terrifies a lot of people."

I raised a hand. "I can count myself in that number."

Both of them blinked at me.

"You've met the Captain already?" Mary asked, a strange sort of awe in her voice.

Scott chuckled wryly. "Not a lot of people who go up to officer country make it back."

"Well... Some story I'd overheard apparently piqued the First's interest," I said, trying to sound modest. "I was given a personal introduction, and the Captain told her to make me a birth." It sounded bizarre to me, but Mary nodded knowingly, while Scott's eyes held a kind of pity.

"Bird watcher," he spat. "Figures."

"Scott's not a bird watcher," she explained. "He was picked up from another ship and was good at what he did, so the Captain offered him the job. Being in our line of business, the turnover rate is... a bit much."

I had a feeling 'turn over' had a literal interpretation in this situation. For Scott's part, I had a feeling there was something he wanted to add, but he didn't voice it. "So... What does that mean? Being a bird watcher, I mean?"

"They liked your story," Scott answered, crossing his arms. "Means you're likely to be around for a while unless you do something to piss them off." He glanced towards the kitchen. "Cookie's a bird watcher – one of the first. I think he's been on this ship the longest, minus the First and Captain."

I frowned. "Not even the Second?"

Mary actually giggled, and Scott demonstrated a dark sense of humor. "I think being Second Mate is the _second_ most dangerous job on this ship."

"I've been through... what, three of them?" She murmured in amusement, looking up to count. "Joey, Mark, Jasper – yeah, three."

There was something very _very_ wrong with that. "That's... really not good." When junior management kept quitting, there was usually something very wrong with _upper_ management.

"Don't have to tell me," Scott said, a haunting sing-song. "I'm the next with a clean record. If Jasper gets 'lost', I think I'm the next candidate."

"If you don't piss off the Captain beforehand," she said. The way she warned him with her eyes told me that this was far more likely. The way he huffed at her told me he'd heard the warning too many times to be bothered by it.

Suddenly, there was a loud rumble to my left, and I glanced at the clock on the wall: it read '4:02'.

"Wow... he's prompt," I murmured. I also couldn't believe I'd been working for four hours. And then another sobering thought: my mother wouldn't miss me for another hour and a half. If she didn't crash early. Then she wouldn't know until dinner…

"Actually, that'd be the First Mate," said Mary. "She likes to keep things on a timetable."

"Speaking of which, I have a couple of errands to run before my shift starts." He tossed a mock salute my way. "Keep your nose clean, greenie."

I returned a real one. "Aye, sir." He snorted and left the galley.

Before I could ask, Cookie called from the kitchen. "Doyle, you're off duty. Tim will show you to your birthing – I want you back here at 1100, alright?"

I expressed my gratitude, and let Tim lead the way.

'Greenie', it turned out, was an old nickname for the FNG of the ship – FNG being an acronym, aka Foxtrot something Gamma, or "the Fucking New Guy". I had to admit, 'greenie' had a much nicer tone to it, even if I'm sure it confused the hell out of Toads. The general populace of the ship used the term with an almost sad affection and was rather kind to me. I wasn't honestly sure if I should have felt relieved or worried but tried not to think about it too much. Tim and I shared a 'birth' – a small room about six feet wide, eight feet long, with two bunks on one wall – and he showed me how to set the alarm after informing me that I had the bottom bunk. I fell asleep without too much trouble, and when I woke up, I might have believed I was still dreaming if it weren't for the fact that the obnoxious alarm was nothing like the one I had back at home. And I also wasn't usually growled at by a pissed off roomie.

As I shut off the offending noisemaker, listening to Tim rollover above me, I wondered once more about my mother. She'd always pestered me to get a 'real job', rather than loaf around her bar – she insisted I was cluttering up good customer space with my big mouth when some other sailor could be telling tall tales if someone kept his glass full. I wondered if this was what she had in mind – press-ganged into working on a pirate ship, a monster for a Captain, and the potential for a paycheck, but still washing dishes.

I'd given myself a bit of extra time and took the opportunity to look around a bit more. The birth was humble and didn't hold much decoration, but Tim had several books lying around. I figured those would be nice when we were off duty – I doubt after a long day of work my ideal relaxing spot would be the galley.

I ventured out of our room, closing the hatch behind me, and looked around. The hall was lined with hatches similar to mine – three on one side, three on the other. To my left, the hall ended in a hatch that was labeled 'Restroom'. A small lock indicated that the room was empty, so I slipped inside.

It was tiny. Likely an afterthought, though a nicely done one. A toilet and simple shower stall were all that was here, and the tub was scrubbed clean, although a small collection of soaps and shampoos cluttered a hanging basket under the showerhead. A cupboard of some kind hung over the toilet, and I opened it to find a stack of fresh white towels. I quickly washed, a bit disappointed that I had to slip into my old, and by now dirty clothes, but figured someone would figure out that detail later.

I reported to the galley with almost twenty minutes to spare, and Cookie greeted me with a grin.

"You're early, that's good," he remarked. "Check the coffee, I'm making breakfast."

"Aye, sir." I filled a nearly empty coffee urn so that she could start brewing as soon as I needed her to. I also wiped at the tables absently – my mother always seemed to have a fetish for shining counter-tops, and nothing shined them like a fresh wipe down. When I'd finished, I sat down with a mug of coffee (it was actually _really_ good), and only knew Tim was finally up because I heard him say rather loudly from the kitchen, "Make the greenie do it!"

Mostly curious, I made my way to the window. "What am I doing, now?" I had a feeling some sort of cruel initiation rite was about to take place, but I'd participated in enough of them that my mindset was more, "let's get it over with" than anything.

"Captain's lunch," the other steward immediately answered, pointing at a covered dish. It was set on a separate tray, the lid and handles polished silver. I had to confess, I was semi-curious as to what was inside it.

Cookie gave the boy a warning eye. "Come on, he's still new. I wouldn't make him carry that dish up to officer country. If he drops it, all hell will break loose."

I felt a chill travel down my spine at what kind of 'hell' might break loose if I were to drop the Captain's meal. If his reaction to me calling him 'sir' was any indication, it would not end well.

"If it helps, I _do_ have experience waiting." The cook looked at me with sad eyes. Tim broke into a malicious grin.

"There we have it. Let the greenie do it. I'm sure the Captain's tired of seeing my stupid face, anyway." He wiped his hands of the situation and slipped into the galley. His grin didn't disappear as he helped himself to a mug of coffee.

"What's the big deal?" I asked, entering the kitchen, where the cook was wiping sweat from his brow, his face curled in a look of worry. "If I drop it, we just make him a new one, right?"

Cookie stared at me. And then laughed. He shook his head. "You know what?" He nodded. "Yeah, you take it." He patted me on the shoulder, and I felt I was being mocked rather than encouraged. "You ask too many questions. You're just going to have to learn the hard way." He gestured to the tray, and I picked it up, feeling some kind of shift in the weight that suggested a soup of some kind. I wondered if maybe the 'hell' was more likely a stained carpet, but didn't put the Captain out of my mind.

"Up that ladder, take a right. If the Captain's in the bridge, he'll lead the way; otherwise, second door on the right. Oh, and knock." He gave me a wink, and a flash of teeth, and I wondered once more what kind of hell we were talking about. I made my way to the ladder and looked back at him, but he just gave me a thumbs up that did nothing for my nerves.

I looked up the ladder, suddenly terrified. I didn't know why, but I was. I looked down at the dish, and sniffed at it, recoiling slightly at what smelt like... sour, pickled something, and some kind of heavy herb, and... maybe cabbage? I grimaced and decided that I really didn't want to open this dish. I looked up once more, and then down at the difficult task before me.

"Don't take too long," I heard Cookie coo, and I heard the hatch close behind him.

"Aye, sir," I muttered, and lifted the tray to see if there wasn't some trick to it, trying not to spill the soup as I did so. There was no magical clasp on the bottom of the tray of any sort, so I figured that wasn't it. With a huff, I looked back up at the small hole, and someone walked by. "Uh- hey! Sir! Ma'am!" I called, wondering exactly how stupid that was, but deciding I wasn't going to sit here and figure it out on my own and risk the Captain's wrath when I showed up with half a bowl of cold soup.

To my horror, the face that peered down at me was the First Mate.

"Ah, Mistress!" I corrected. "Excuse me, I'm supposed to be bringing the Captain his lunch. Is there another way up to Officer Country?"

She blinked at me, and I wondered if perhaps she thought I was being funny. "Another way?"

"Besides this ladder, yes, Mistress," I said.

She glowered. "Of course there is." She then came to the ladder, and I stepped aside to let her down.

She glared at me, but I suppose she saw how earnest I was, and decided that perhaps I was serious. "It's this way," she said, nodding down the hall.

I followed, trying not to let her see me sneer as the pungent odor of the dish was really getting into my nose, and _staying_ there. As it was, I think she smelled it, too.

She smirked. "Captain's lunch, you say?" she asked.

"Yes, Mistress," I answered. "I... think it's some kind of soup."

She laughed, and we stopped at the end of the second hall, and she opened a hatch. It appeared to be some kind of lift, and I fought back a growl – it was true. Tim and Cookie had it out for me. The First entered first, and I followed. She closed the hatch and released a button.

The smile never left her face. "Initiation. God, I remember that." But it faltered ever so slightly as she was lost in some sad remembrance. When the door ' _bing!'-_ ed, she stepped out first. "Captain's quarters are this way," she said, nodding. I followed, finding myself noticing the bountiful curves under her blue ship suit. She didn't have her jacket on, and the long, dark curls bounced on her back as she walked.

I swallowed, my grip tightening a bit. I tried to remind myself that she was some kind of witch, and had a way of making you speak the truth even if you didn't want to – I did not want to have thoughts like that in my head, in case she ever asked me about it. If I couldn't lie about my name, how could I lie about that? Besides, she was First Mate. The only person that outranked her was the Captain. Not someone to trifle with, in any case.

We stopped before a door, and she rapped her knuckles. There was a growl from inside, and the hatch opened. There was the Captain, two big, yellow eyes glaring, the rubies like a gorgon, a scowl stretched on his green, monstrous visage, the hint of his piercing teeth, his dark brown hair falling over his face as two ears peered out from behind him. His hat and jacket were gone, and even the ship suit was unbuttoned a bit, revealing a hint of the pale heart shape on his chest. I think I blushed.

His eyes widened as he saw the tray in my hands, and I think they shined with delight. A green hand (oh, thank god... Although, did he only have three fingers?) gripped the lid and lifted it, drowning the three of us in a humid, thick green cloud of sour and herb and musk. That beastly face lowered into the steam and inhaled the noxious scent before sighing in pleasure. I could scarcely detect that my whole body was quivering ever so slightly as the Captain licked his lips with a serpentine tongue.

"My kimchi," he murmured warmly, though it still sent a shiver down my spine. "I've been wanting this for a while." With inhuman speed, he set the lid down and took the bowl from my tray. He inhaled the scent and let out a disturbingly pleased sigh.

The First chuckled from beside me. "I still don't see how you can eat that stuff."

He sipped at the sour soup and let out a soft... purr? "Oh, send my regards to the cook. Montgomery's outdone himself again." The Captain took the bowl to a table on the side – the Captain's quarters were an actual room, at least twice as big as my own birth, and besides the work table had a bed, lined in a dark purple, and in the back corner, I spotted a large enclosure that was full of rocks and plants. I eyed it but had the strange feeling that there was something inside that I'd be better off not meeting.

"Say, when am I getting breakfast in bed?" the First Mate asked me, amused. I blinked, but she just laughed. "I'm messing with you, Doyle."

"I think she's still sleeping," the Captain said, answering the First's question. "But I've wanted this so long, and he knows it..."

The Captain sipped at the soup, and I found myself both fascinated and disturbed as his ears perked at the sour flavor, then relaxed, low against his head, as the hot warmed him, body and soul. I glanced about for the tail and saw it patting pleasantly against the floor. The tuft of hair intrigued me… was that a Kaeguri trait? Far as I knew, they just didn't have tails. Perhaps a throwback. Fortunately, the table hid the claws of his feet. I shuddered even thinking of them.

The First shook her head. "Captain, you enjoy yourself _way_ too much." The Captain just let out a low rumbling noise and sipped more.

I cleared my throat – partly to dislodge the lump building there, and to get away from the disturbing creature that was filling himself with hot soup. It was too easy to imagine how he might tear a man in parts and feast just as joyfully over a still-breathing corpse. Say, my still-breathing corpse. As Xoac were wont to do. "May I take this lid, Captain?"

He peered up at me and then waved me away. "Sure."

I stepped just inside and reached for the silver lid. In the case in the corner, I heard a hissing snap and looked up with a start to see a black snake of some kind, fangs bared, and looking right at me. I found myself instantly paralyzed with fear, the lid still out of my reach, my whole body refusing to move.

The Captain let out a dark laugh. "You startled her." I looked to him, his ears perked, listening, watching the caged beast with awe and wonder. "Try not to make any sudden movements."

It was such a casual remark, but then, I supposed a monster like that would understand another just as well. I slowly reached for the lid and wrapped my shaking fingers around it, watching my knuckles turn white. As I retrieved the dish, the snake's eyes never left mine, fangs bared, until at last I was outside the door, and her mouth closed.

The Captain turned his face to me, at last. There was a smirk curling his lips. "You take care now, Doyle." He looked to the First and gave her a wink.

The First chuckled. "Bye, Captain."

She and I stepped out of the Captain's quarters, and she closed the hatch. She smiled at me. "The bridge is that way," she said, pointing away from the lift. "You know the way from there?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mistress."

"Very well. Carry on."

I quickly scampered away, but as I turned the corner, I saw the First Mate open the Captain's door again, without knocking, and disappear inside.


	3. Montgomery's Report

When I got to the galley, my mind was still buzzing. Mostly because I... wasn't exactly sure what I'd seen. The Captain had been perfectly horrid, but the First Mate had been... dare I say familiar?

Not only with myself, but with the Captain. Little jokes? Winks? Aside conversations? I'd definitely seen more than I probably ought to have – for all the First's apparent acceptance of my presence, the Captain still kept his cards close. What game were they playing? And what were the rules, exactly?

And what did this glimpse at their hands mean for my well-being?

Absently, I'd gone straight to wiping down tables, the room empty but for myself when I'd entered. I say absently because when Cookie's voice pulled me out of my thoughts, I was holding a damp rag in one hand.

He chuckled at me, a silver ring in his left ear glittering in the fluorescent lights. "Care to join us, Doyle?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"Sorry, sir," I answered, sure a blush was creeping up my cheeks. "I was... lost in my own head, there."

He nodded, amused. "How was the Captain?" To my involuntary shudder, some kind of sadistic grin spread over his face. "Can't have been too bad. Kimchi always brightens up his morning."

"Yeah, he sends his regards." I gulped as I thought of the inhuman pleasure our Captain took over his ghastly soup.

Another chuckle from Cookie. "You didn't have any trouble getting it up to Officer Country?" Over his shoulder, I spotted a carrot top pretending not to listen in the kitchen.

"Actually, I asked for help," I confessed. The fact being far stranger than any fiction I could think up at that exact moment. "I called out to a passing officer, and the First Mate walked me through the lift at the end of the hall."

I'm pretty sure I heard Tim curse, but Cookie looked pleased. "That was good thinking, Doyle. You're depending on your crewmates – that's the right thing to do in a place like this."

I wasn't sure what he meant by that, considering we were bloodthirsty pirates if the tales were true, but he didn't explain himself. Tim hardly spoke to me as we prepared the crew's lunch – hearty, creamy potato soup with fresh baked bread and cheesecake for dessert. As they trickled in, I found myself a bit intrigued by the lack of diversity of the crew. They were mostly human (we did have a reputation of being batshit crazy, and gluttons for punishment) but there was a single Kaninchen who was in engineering if I heard right. What he was doing in this end of space, I wasn't sure. But they didn't talk much, except in Chep, and I don't know one squeak from another, so it wasn't like I could ask him. Watching them fill the galley reminded me so much of home, hanging out in the kitchen and admiring the barflies. Some of them sipped coffee and read books, another working a log over a sandwich. There was a trio playing dice over here, and another circle playing cards. Everyone was wearing a ship suit, in some form or other, though they had different colors. I assumed there was a rhyme and reason to it that I'd figure out eventually.

I saw a lot of new faces as lunch wore on, and a couple of old ones. One, in particular, caught me by surprise.

"Hey, greenie," growled Rhea. Her blond hair was spilling over her bountiful bosom, which was hardly contained in a tan tank top, her ship suit half-open, the sleeves wrapped around her waist. Her skin was a bright, freshly scrubbed pink, and her posture was unmistakable.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," I replied, forcing my eyes to focus on the soup I was ladling into a bowl for her.

"Call me Rhea," she told me with a wink.

I chanced a glance at Cookie, who was doing gods-knew-what in the freezer. I turned back to her, holding her gaze. The First Mate's words on the topic of rank flashed behind my eyes. "Maybe when I'm not on duty, ma'am."

"That's a date," she purred. She took her tray and sashayed away, far more than was likely natural.

It took me a long moment to pull my lungs out of my throat.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

I turned to Tim, who was serving a tired navigator who was muttering something about 'swamps'. "Talking to me again," I noted.

"I'm serious," he said, his face supporting the statement. "I wouldn't mess with Rhea. She... plays rough."

I blinked. "You're kidding, right?"

He shrugged. "I'm just saying. She's in mechanics now, after all." Something twitched his cheeks.

As I watched her take her seat, I took note of the powerful muscles in her arm and back... and realized he likely had a point. "I'll keep it in mind."

Before long, business slowed. I loaded a dishwasher and set it to run, and Cookie dismissed me.

"Go get some sleep," he said, spreading a fresh towel on the kitchen countertops. "Be back at 1800."

I took away twelve. "1800 is six o'clock, right?"

Cookie nodded. "'Round here, everything runs on 24 hour time. Rest up."

I gave him an "Aye, sir," and 'shoved off'.

Dinner was not unlike lunch; the meal consisted of a small steak, steamed vegetables, rolls, candied yams, and an apple tart with ice cream for dessert. Cookie had everything already going when I got there, so all I really had to do was dress the buffet table.

Early on, a frail-looking girl with honeyed hair and hidden hazel eyes arrived in the galley, her fair complexion looking even more so in her black ship suit.

"Ah, Abigail," Cookie greeted her kindly.

The girl saluted. "Mr. Montgomery, sir. Here for the officers' meals."

"But of course, m'dear."

I watched her curiously as I wiped down a countertop. She was young, likely not even fifteen, and the hair was tied back into a tight tail at the nape of her neck. A stray tendril was floating over one brow, but she hadn't seemed to notice it yet. She was intent on watching Cookie serve four dishes, cover them, and then stack them on a tray.

"Here we are," he said with a big smile.

"Thank you, sir," she replied sharply, saluting him again before gathering the tray in her arms. I almost called out to assist her – her thin arms didn't look anywhere near strong enough to carry it all, and I half expected her to collapse under the weight – but something told me to hold my tongue. After a moment, she had the pile leaning against her small chest and scuttled out of the kitchen. I watched her go and turned to Cookie for some kind of explanation.

"That's Abigail," he said, so quiet I stepped closer to hear. "She's the Captain's personal assistant, ferries messages and summonses around the ship. She usually brings the officers' meals." His mischievous twinkle returned as he gave me a wink. I glowered at him but said nothing.

The dinner crowd was definitely the best turn out. Even the night shift folk were up already, and we were only missing the small handful of watchstanders that were already retired for the night and those on the bridge. Abigail ducked back in to feed the navigator and communications specialist on duty near the end of the rush.

"Mr. Montgomery, sir," she said in that crisp, official tone. "The First mate reminds you that you are due for a report at your earliest convenience."

"Aye, Ms. Abigail, thank you. Tim? Keep an eye on things. Doyle, you're with me."

I blinked, confused, as the cook shed his apron. "Sir?"

"Earliest convenience, Doyle. Means 'ASAP'. We don't test an officer's patience."

I finished the dish I was serving, and Tim called the rest over to his station. I ducked through the door after Cookie, and we made our way up the ladder.

I thought to myself how contradictory it was that, despite being told I was to never venture to Officer Country, I was climbing to the top level of the ship for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. Cookie stood straight, hands behind his back, and I tried to copy his mannerisms, failing miserably in the posture and confidence departments. We stopped at a hatch, and I wondered idly how everyone knew what hatch was what. I only knew my birth because it was the middle of three on the opposite side of the hall from the galley. The galley and kitchen, because they were always lit from the inside. I made a note to myself to find a map or something before I tried to explore. Cookie rapped on the door with a handsome "shave and a haircut." But no one answered.

"Nobody's home," he noted, almost with amusement. In the light, that ring caught my eye again. "I suppose the Captain wants to hear my report, too."

Something dropped into the pit of my stomach. _The Captain again?_ I cursed my rotten luck as Cookie led the way to the bridge. There was faint chatter coming from the open hatch as we approached.

"...We've only the three extra hands at present – Rhea's taking over for Max. Doyle for Jeremy. Mind, with the way Scott's going..."

The First Mate was speaking with the Captain. His back was toward me, his jacket on his shoulders, and I could just see her behind him. My eyes caught those green fingers, entwined together in a loose clasp he gave a sharp nod.

"He has two strikes..."

But he must have heard us, because his head quickly turned about, and suddenly those yellow eyes were on me. I felt my mouth go dry as I realized just how far his neck could stretch without the rest of him moving. It was like some kind of snake, and I'm sure my eyes bugged out.

Cookie stepped before me and stood straight, a hand in a tight salute. "Montgomery reporting as ordered, Captain!" I quickly saluted as well, but a mouse had run off with my voice. The Captain's lip curled.

"Ah, Montgomery. And Doyle." His body joined his face in a silent, fluid motion, and the First took us in as well. He looked at her. "Have I been keeping you?"

"Forgive, Captain. Montgomery owes me his report on the greenie." She looked to me, and I suddenly found the otherwise fond nickname exceptionally awkward with the present company. For his part, the Captain moved away.

"Would you like the report here or in private, Mistress?" Cookie asked, still at attention. I kept the stance, too.

She seemed to turn herself ever so slightly. "At your discretion, Montgomery." Although the Captain had his eye on the bridge, I swear I saw his ears spying on us.

Cookie dropped the salute and I shadowed. "Doyle is a ready and willing man, Mistress. He's shown humility and quick thinking when problem-solving and obeys authority without question. He learns easily and is quick on his feet. In fact, I almost feel bad keeping him in the Galley, Mistress. If you have nothing else for him to do, I'll keep him, but I think he can do better than cleaning tables." He punctuated it with another salute and, "Mistress."

I blinked at the cook, then looked to the First Mate. Her face was still, and I saw her steal a glance at the Captain, who'd listened to the report without twitching so much as a jeweled ear. The First Mate nodded sharply.

"Thank you, Montgomery. You're dismissed."

"Aye, Mistress."

I glanced quickly between them both – Cookie tossed me a wink (which terrified me) and the First Mate was gazing at me. Not knowing what else to do, I lifted a hand in a shaky salute.

"Mistress," I said, hardly keeping my voice steady.

"You can stand down, Doyle," she said quietly. I hesitated, not entirely sure what all that meant (Could I go back?), so I asked.

"Stand down, Mistress?" The Captain's head turned to listen, ever so slightly.

"You can let go of your salute," she explained. "And your attention. That's the... posture." Her lips twitched ever so slightly.

_Stand down_. I forced my body to relax and looked back to the Captain. Even though his back was turned on me, all black and green, with only a kiss of yellow on his wrists, I had the unsettling feeling that he was watching me, despite my own eyes telling me that his long-eared skull was between me and those glowing orbs.

"What do you think, Captain?" I looked to the First Mate, but her face was the same as before, her honeyed eyes resting on his unearthly frame. I saw him turn his head to her, but I couldn't see his face.

"Sounds like Montgomery sees promise in our young Mr. Doyle," he said after a long moment. "I've voiced my desires as far as personnel. You know the crew. I trust your judgment." With that, he returned to the helm, padding silently on those grotesque claws. I tore my eyes from the distracting tuft on his tail, and back to the First Mate, feeling for all the world like a felon facing his sentencing. Her golden eyes returned to mine, and she, too, seemed to be scrying into my soul.

"Report back to Montgomery, Doyle. I'll find you a more... appropriate birth."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, Mistress?"

She raised an eyebrow at me.

"Is there... anyway I could get a ship suit? I've been wearing these clothes for two days, Mistress."

This time, it was the Captain who laughed – a low, throaty 'heh heh heh heh' that floated through the room effortlessly, and made the First smile. In a flash, he was facing our end of the ship, those devilish lips peeled back to show glittering pearly white fangs.

"Gale!" he barked. It was a pregnant moment before the yellow-haired girl from the kitchen run appeared, her thin frame wrapped in a black ship suit, looking so much like the angelic side of the Captain's coin.

"Captain?" she greeted, sharp at attention, like she had been with Cookie back at the galley.

"Take Doyle down to Alice. Get the boy a ship suit." He moved those yellow eyes to me. There was a dark pleasure in his blood-red eyes that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Make it blue," the First Mate added. She looked to the Captain, and he nodded.

"Aye, Captain." She bowed to the First as well. "Mistress." I gave a salute as well and followed the messenger out of the bridge.

_Great, now what?_ I thought wildly to myself. Who was Alice? What did a blue ship suit mean?

And why did I get the feeling I was going to be back in Officer Country very soon?


	4. Going Blue

I followed Abigail down two sets of ladders and I swear, the air pressure was different. I think a lot of it had to do with the Captain and First Mate not being down here. Just being in the room with them scared the crap out of me. I hadn't been down to the third level since my original entrance on the ship, and I found that it all looked the same, except for different prizes covering the walls.

"Is there by any chance... a map of this place?" I asked, knowing how stupid I sounded.

She looked back at me. "There might be. If not, Mistress can be draw one up for ya."

But before I could say more, she stopped at a door and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Abigail, Miss. On duty from the Captain and First Mate."

The door opened to reveal a plump woman, the kind you usually saw happily married with a number of children, with a round face and warm smile, brunette hair, and chocolate brown eyes. She looked at me curiously. "This is the greenie from steward, yeah?" She addressed the question to Abigail, not to me. "Ship suit?"

"The First Mate requests blue, Miss." Her military demeanor dropped for a moment. "I know you just got off watch, but he's apparently not got clothes but that. And he's been wearing it two days."

Alice giggled. "He said that to the Captain?"

Abigail's posture straightened, but the smile stayed. "Aye, Miss. If we could get him suited up post-haste, that'd be lovely."

I noticed a silver earring sparkling on Alice's left ear. "Very well. The blue will take some manufacturing, but we'll see if we have an extra or steward on hand." Alice beckoned me to come, and I ducked into the birth.

"I'll report to the Captain and First Mate," Abigail echoed, her manner back in place. She disappeared down the hall, and Alice turned to me.

"So," she said. "Blue, eh?"

I said nothing. She didn't seem to expect me to say anything, however, as she merely puttered to the back of her birth. Which I noticed was about twice the size of mine. There was the same desk, but the bed was a single, not a bunk. There was a wardrobe beside the desk, and the long wall was shelved with books and sorted boxes and containers. Alice hummed absently as she ventured into the wardrobe, poking about at a rainbow of garb.

"What is your shirt and pant size?" she asked.

"Uh..." I think I blushed. It was like going shopping with my grandmother again – a chore I never enjoyed. Much of the time was spent reassuring her that I _did_ know what my size was, reminding her that the climate was far colder in the South than in the North, and reiterating what was and was not 'my style'. As if asking me the same question seven or a hundred times encouraged me to change the answer.

But, you had to be patient. She was your grandmother after all.

Alice went back to the humming, poking through the collection. I stood there, awkwardly waiting for the –

"Try these on."

I cleared my throat. "In here?"

She gave me a lecherous look. "You might kill yourself trying it in the bathroom."

I had been afraid of that. As I turned away, stripping off my clothes, I thought once more of my grandmother's critical eyes. ' _You're too fat_ ', ' _You're too skinny_ ', ' _Did you know you have hair there?'_ It was embarrassing. It made me grateful I only had to see her around Chryssam. "Steward first," she said, pointing at a warm, heather gray ship suit – the same color as Tim's. "And then the extra." 'Extra' was a dark, royal purple.

I picked up the 'steward' and slipped it on. I zipped up the front and held out my arms for inspection.

She hummed a pensive note. She picked up the end of a sleeve and straightened it.

"I think that's the right size. It'll need to be tailored."

She likewise checked my legs, smoothing the fabric over my thigh (which my grandmother also used to do, but suddenly it wasn't quite the same) and observing the ankle. As she bent over to see how they fell around the ankles, I got a great view of her bountiful cleavage – the porcelain curves snuggled close under the white tee, the orange suit making her look as delectable as pumpkin pie.

I swallowed the thought and looked up and away, trying not to think of how adorable her pouting lips looked as she debated.

"Yeah," she said again. "I think that's the right size. You're good."

I let down my arms, and she returned to the wardrobe, pulling another gray ship suit, and a purple. She handed them to me, and I gathered them in my arms.

"That's three suits. Should be plenty." She bent over again and gathered my clothes. I wondered idly if there was a blush rising on my cheeks – because my face was feeling rather warm. "I'll take these to get washed. You won't need them until shore leave. And it shouldn't take me too long to get blues made up for you." As she spoke, she made her way to the hatch and opened it. "I'll have you sent for when they're done. Until then, use those."

The suits bundled in my arms (and held a little low, just in case), I awkwardly stepped out into the hall. I looked behind me to say thanks or something, but the hatch shut behind me.

_Abigail had said she'd just gotten off watch_ , I thought to myself. _Perhaps she's just ready to hit the sack_. I looked about nervously but found a ladder.

I was grateful when I spotted the light of the galley just at the end of the hall. I dropped my new suits off in my birth, and then 'reported' to Cookie.

"Ah, Doyle! You're back." He smirked at me. "Keeping you in steward for a while?"

"Er, is that what the colors mean, sir? Job?"

"Indeed they do, my boy. Gray is steward – that's you and Tim. Orange is for cargo, the dark green is for science, yellow engineering, brown and light green for communications and navigation."

I blinked at him. "You're navigation?" I asked. I'd thought perhaps the different color was because he was the boss.

"Yes, Doyle, I am." He seemed rather proud of it. "Actually, in truth, I'm a pilot. I'm the back-up pilot whenever the Captain isn't up to the helm. Mind, that means I'm usually doing nothing, thus me working here." He gave me a wink, and his silver earring glittered in the light.

"And purple, sir?"

"Extra hands. Spares for when we need... rearrangements." There was that sadistic sense of humor again. 'High turn over rate', Marilyn had said. "But, we don't usually get too many of those. But they help do housecleaning, laundry, things like that."

"And... blue, sir?"

He blinked at me. "Blue?"

"Yea-yes, sir. Blue. The... First Mate requested me getting blue ship suits."

I thought I heard something drop in Tim's direction, but I didn't turn to see what it was he'd done. There wasn't any cursing, so it couldn't have been anything serious.

The expression on Cookie's face was indescribable. "Blue... is the First Mate," he answered quietly. "Second is red. The Captain is black." He peered at me. "The First Mate asked for you to get blue?"

"Yes, sir," I answered. "But the seamstress said it'd take a while." I quizzed myself. "She was wearing orange. That's... cargo, you said?"

"Alice," he nodded. "But the First Mate wants you wearing blue?"

"Apparently so, sir."

Cookie gave a grunt. "Well, I'll be damned." His face burst into a grin. "She must like you. That's real swell, Doyle. Yeah, don't get comfy 'round here. You'll be shipping out, soon."

I wondered if he meant off the ship... or just the galley. And I decided I didn't really want to ask that question.

At 0500, Tim and I got up, dressed in our grey ship suits, and reported to the galley. Cookie was whipping up some scrambled eggs, and set us to making 'fixins' – dicing peppers and onions, frying up and chopping bacon – he even had a spiced sausage of some kind set up for frying. First person up was Marilyn.

She yawned, making a beeline for the coffee urn. "'Mornin, boys," she greeted. She filled a mug, and we heard nothing from her for a minute as she ingested some of the hot, black gold. Eventually, she appeared in the window again. "What's for brekkie, Cookie?"

"Eggs and omelets," he answered with a smile. "What can I do you for?"

"Ooh... three eggs. Peppers, onions. And make the greenie do it."

I looked up at her, and she gave me a wink.

"Better enjoy it while it lasts," Cookie said. "Greenie here's going blue."

She blinked. "He's doing what?"

"Er, the First Mate wants me wearing blue," I said. "Er, Miss. I... think I'll be working with her, soon."

Mary gave a 'huh!' sound. "Well. Color me impressed."

By the end of breakfast, everyone seemed to know about my pending transition. Every time I heard the word 'blue', it seemed like someone was looking directly at me. The women, in particular, seemed to be enjoying what they saw. Before long, my ears were turning 'red', and it wasn't too long until Abigail reported for her pickup. I thought this was a pirate ship? I felt like I was back at my mother's pub, only the regulars are color-coded.

"Mr. Montgomery, sir. Here for the officers' meals."

"Good morning, Abigail," he greeted. "It's omelets today. Same as usual?"

"Second Mate requests no onions, sir. Otherwise, the usual."

I watched Cookie – one was made up with sausage, bacon, and cheese, another with a little sausage, onions, peppers, and a last that was more greens than eggs.

"And you, my dear?" he asked.

She seemed to have been debating it. "Actually... do you have any of those cinnamon buns left?"

There was the little girl I'd seen a hint of before. Like a grandfather doting on a beloved child, he nodded, looking around to see if anyone noticed how he spoiled her. He went to prepare it, and she loaded the three dishes in her arms. I watched her go, scuttling off like a rather excited crab, and then looked to Cookie, who had pulled a pair of sticky buns that looked as big as his hands – with the fingers extended to their full spread - and set them in a warmer.

"Those things are huge," I whispered, hoping not to attract any jealous attention from the crew that was already eating their breakfast. "Do you make those from scratch?"

"Everything in this kitchen is made from scratch, m'boy," he said, tricksy. "And that's 'sir'."

"Oh, right. Sorry, sir."

He nodded. "You're forgiven." He gave me another wink, and I returned to my task, rolling my eyes lightly at my odd boss.

My future ex-boss. A chill went down my spine at that thought. _Wow, here two days, and already I have a promotion_ , I thought. _Ma, look at me now_.


	5. Greed

Lunch came and went, and Cookie dismissed me for the shift. I tried to once again take a nap between meals, but I was just so restless, I couldn't manage it. I milled about in the galley, for lack of anywhere else to go, and ended up learning a dice game called 'Greed' from a pair of 'extras'. You had six dice that scored so many points, and after you counted up what you had, you could roll some more, for the chance at scoring higher. If your extra roll flubbed out, you lost everything – the pair of them were playing for fun, but Joey, a thin fellow with raven hair and sharp hazel eyes, seemed a bit itchy for someone to gamble with.

"Maybe when you get your first pay share, we can play for coin. What say you to that?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. I'm more a card person, myself."

"Bah," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Cards are so ten-penny. Everyone knows how to play poker, or blackjack, or whatever else there is. But dice are simple. You hit it, or you don't. It's all luck, anyone who says 'it's in the wrist' is just psyching you out. You can't really cheat much more than tossing loaded ones, and that game is figured out pretty quick."

Margaret rolled her eyes as he tossed again. Her hair was strawberry blond and trailed down the side of her face with an adorably messy, carefree style. I had always admired that kind of natural beauty in a girl. "Jo could very well write entire books on dice if you let him ramble on long enough."

"Maybe I will," he said with a grin, counting his dice. "Alright, I think I'm going for it." He had one of each, except for the five and three – he had a double two and four.

"Be careful..." she warned.

The dice were cast, and he only got the three.

"Damn," he cursed quietly.

"Greedy," I said, smiling. I gathered the dice and rolled myself. Four of the six were scoring, so I kept it as is.

Margaret scribbled it in. "Heh. Hey Joey, this greenie's kicking your ass."

He scoffed. "Beginner's luck." We watched Margaret roll, and take her score.

"So, what exactly does an 'extra' do?" I asked. I wasn't sure if it was a shameful question, but my curiosity was killing me.

"Well, that depends," Joey said, tossing his turn. He growled at the shite toss and gathered them again. "Generally, we do nothing. The ship runs pretty smoothly – the Captain's pretty sure about that. So we spend a lot of time doing whatever the hell we want to." He tossed. "Ha! Much better." He pulled the two non-scoring ones. "Now... Do I roll again?"

"800's already a pretty high score," Margaret advised.

It seemed to pain him to play it safe. "Eh, alright." He tossed the two die, and they didn't score.

I chuckled. "Good choice." I gathered them up.

"Now, technically speaking, we're just extra hands," said Margaret. "If someone in cargo has a really heavy load, someone in science needs an extra hand, or if the laundry needs doing, or a mess needs to be cleaned up on deck somewhere, we're stuck as a janitorial squad." They watched me toss. "Ooh. Almost Greed," she noted. "Roll that 1 into a 3, and you get the gold."

I shuffled my face. "I think I'll go for it."

I didn't get a three, but I did get a six.

"Eh. You didn't lose it entirely."

"Yeah, that's my luck. Count it." I wasn't so sure I wanted to toss the whole hand again.

The two purples and I wasted a good hour or two before Cookie got tired of me sitting there and doing nothing.

"Doyle! Get in here and make yourself useful if you're just going to sit around, tossing craps."

Joey held his tongue but glared at the old codger. Margaret laughed quietly and gathered the dice.

"Don't let us keep you, Doyle. Cookie can be a tough old goat if you're not careful."

Cookie set me to work dicing vegetables for dinner's stew. Potatoes and peppers and celery were chopped into mountains that were then dumped unceremoniously into a giant pot. The stock was added, and some meat. Cookie had a slew of spices to add to it, and he covered it. Tim showed up, then, but was informed that his duties had been done. We set up coffee and waited for the dinner crowd to show up.

Abigail showed up early for the officers' meals. "Mr. Montgomery, sir. Here for the officers' meals."

"But of course, my dear." Four steaming bowls of hot soup, accompanied by fresh-baked bread.

And then she turned to me. "Doyle, the First Mate requests you report to her tomorrow morning. 0700." Her eye looked at my suit. "Purples, until you get your blue." She pulled a paper from the folds of her suit. "And, the First Mate asked me to give you this."

I didn't know what to say. I held out my hand and accepted it. "Er... thank you. Miss."

Something twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Actually, Doyle. Come tomorrow morning, we'll be equals." I think it was a hint of a smile.

Cookie patted the stack. "It's all yours, lovely."

She took the meals and scuttled out the door. The other steward turned to me.

"What is it?" Tim asked.

I unfolded the paper... and gave a chuckle. "It's a map."

Cookie laughed with me, but Tim just rolled his eyes.

"Lame."

The rest of dinner went by quickly. Instead of blushing nervously, comments about 'greenie going blue' were met with excited grins. I stayed to the last guest left, sipping his coffee and muttering his good-nights, and Cookie bid us good night.

"'Night, greenie," he said with a smile. "I'll see you when you pick up the officers' meals, yeah?"

I smirked. "I suppose so."

Tim and I retired to our birth, and he gave me a long look.

"...I suppose you'll be going up top, soon," he said. And then he put on a smirk. "Mind, can't say I envy you. Living in Officer Country with the Captain."

"No, the First Mate," I corrected. "Way sexier."

He outright snickered. "Wow, have _you_ got issues," he said. "Mistress would chew you up and spit you out. In a week, you'll be crawling back down here, _begging_ to scrub grease with me again."

"Don't count on it!"

The ginger gave me a last, cheeky smile, and disappeared up the bunk.

I slept with jitters, a bit excited about my new promotion. And miraculously managed to not think about the Captain at all – just the beautiful blue-haired witch who was going to be my new boss.

The next morning, map in hand, I headed up to the First Mate's office.

I'd set my alarm for about forty minutes early. I showered, dressed in a purple ship suit, and hurried up to Officer Country a bit faster than I had anticipated. It wasn't even half past when I checked the time as I pulled up at the door. I triple checked to make sure it was the right hatch, but nodded, assuring myself I was not mistaken.

I knocked.

Nobody answered.

I waited for a few minutes, looking both ways to see if anyone was up and about, but there was no one. I took a deep breath and knocked again.

Again, no answer.

I let out a small huff, wondering if perhaps I was _too_ early. I checked the map and found the First Mate's quarters a little ways away. I slipped down the passage, found the door, and slipped the map inside my ship suit.

As I did so, I heard a sound from within.

I froze, terror filling every vein in my body with ice-cold fear. It was a soft moan, the kind that only meant...

And then a small gasp, a strained sound. I could hear her voice whine in a desperate way, and then a collective sigh, from not only the First Mate but another voice. It was quiet, and I imagined the two lovers were collapsed in a puddle of hot, glowing, coital goo. If I tried really hard, I could almost smell it.

I flattened myself against a wall, my head down, and wondered exactly how hard it was going to be to get that sound out of my head. Even now, it played over and over in my mind, the fantasies of last night not being much help. I couldn't help but imagine her face contorted in the throes of passion, that tangled mess of hair spilling over a pillow. I clenched my hands into fists and wondered who had bedded the First Mate. I don't know why, but I guess I'd figured her sudden, instant favor of me meant I was to be a kind of bunk bunny – it was a vague, distant hope, but the young womanizer in me couldn't help but dare to dream.

I strained my ears as a murmuring came from within. Her warm, melodic voice answered softly, and I debated hiding around a corner to avoid the awkward encounter with her early-rising (I choked on the thought) paramour. Something – probably my pride, more than anything, though I wouldn't rule out curiosity – insisted I stay still, but perhaps panic and shock were just as likely culprits. The moments stretched painfully long, but eventually, the hatch opened. I turned my head, and whatever sense I had left in my body completely vanished.

It was the Captain. He stopped suddenly as soon as he spotted me and looked me up and down with a sense of confusion. No doubt he was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Particularly at this early hour. And particularly at the door of the First Mate. What a half-Xoac, half-Kaeguri was doing bedding comparably delicate humans, particularly ones he worked with on a regular basis, was something that baffled me. And it also told me that, yes, the First Mate was not someone to be trifled with, but with a darker, more sensual subtext that quite honestly disturbed me. I'm sure I stared, and he let out a soft 'heheheh...'

"You're early, Doyle," he noted with a purr of amusement. His jacket was not on his shoulders but draped over an arm that hung around his hips, the black ship suit zipped all the way up in front. His hat was held between his fingers, and he put it on his head, his sanguine eyes not leaving me. I imagined he was enjoying my discomfort and awkwardness as if his yellow eyes could somehow absorb all of my nervous energies. "That's good." My mind hardly registered the commendation. I was too busy staring. I watched him in horror, jealousy, and envy as he looked back into the room, a small smile on his face. The teeth shone, and I tried to tell myself any red I saw was a trick of the light. "Your greenie's here," he told her, and I could hear that dark chuckle rolling under his words. If I could have melted into the floor, or spontaneously combusted into flame, I'm sure I would have.

"Oh, damn," I heard her curse softly. "Her- Er, Captain. Would you be so kind as to let him into my office? I'll be there shortly." I heard a scuffling and a 'klump' on the floor, but the Captain shut the hatch quickly before I could get a glimpse of anything.

He looked down at me, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. Oh, he had plenty of reason to be smarmy and pleased with himself, I thought bitterly. I'd be, too, if I was bedding that gorgeous, honey-eyed moor. She just exuded a kind of mystery that haunted your dreams. Well, my dreams. At least, they had last night.

We made our way back to the First Mate's office, his quiet, soft footfalls barely audible (something I found curious, considering the claws) while mine sounded clunky in comparison. Ah, who had I been kidding? I'm just some schmuck kid who knows how to serve food. The Captain was... well, a pirate captain. You can't really compete with that. Not to mention the tales they tell about Murbian lovers. The Xoacs are pretty terrifying (unless you like that kind of thing), but the Kaeguri were something on everyone's bucket list. The Captain reached up a green hand and deftly opened the lock with some string of numbers.

"I imagine she'll tell you the lock when she gets in," he said, that smirk still hanging off to the side. "For now, sit and try not to hurt yourself. Hmm?"

He left me standing there, inside the First Mate's office for the third time. Only this time, instead of fearing the Captain... I almost hated him.

And I felt really, really bad about it.


	6. The Second

At exactly 6:57a, the First Mate stepped into her office.

"Morning, Doyle!" she sang. "My, you get here early. That's really swell. Maybe I might do that, too." She laughed, a warm, tinkling sound that soothed my nerves. A back corner of her shelf had a small coffee pot that had started brewing by itself a short while ago – the fresh pot was finished and waiting for her, and she poured herself a cup.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"I'm good," I answered. "I'd grabbed some on my way up."

"Prepared," she noted, toasting me. "I like it." She drowned herself in the dark brew. Her satisfied sound made me prickle a bit, but she just sat behind her desk. The jacket of status was lying on the chair, and I'd amused myself for a bit by admiring her collection of trinkets. Now, I could look at her – her sapphire ship suit hugging her figure. I wondered idly if she was a good bit older than she looked. I wasn't too familiar with her variant of human, so it's entirely likely she aged differently.

Or maybe that was the Murbian boyfriend improving her complexion.

She set the coffee mug on the desk, her dark locks dancing over her shoulders. "You have that map I sent you?"

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you."

"Not a problem. It was an unusual request, but I suppose it's better than watching you blunder about for two weeks until you figure out where everything is." She turned her attention to the papers on her desk. "Today we have a report due from cargo, make sure they have space for our next shipment. I think the Captain wants us to stop for a refueling when we hit Stockerd..."

My mind flickered to the demon and his cheeky smirk.

"...But for now, I think you and Abigail will be left to the usual." She looked up at me. "The Captain has had Abigail working on a project for a while now – you're going to help. When she's up, you'll help her with breakfast and she'll get you caught up."

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, nodding.

"For now... I have your birth being worked on. You'll be up here in Officer Country when it's done. Reshuffling personnel, one of my specialties..." Her voice didn't sound very excited. She sighed as she rifled through the stack, looking for something. She eventually found it, and set to responding to a query, or filling out a report, or whatever else it was she was doing. "Also, we're due to have a guest later this afternoon, and you'll be expected to play maid for him." She glanced back at the clock. And made a little ticking noise with her mouth. "And breakfast. Breakfast would be damned good right now..."

As if someone had heard the First Mate's wishes, the door knocked.

"Who is it?" the First Mate called.

"Abigail, Mistress. Breakfast is country style potatoes. Your usual?"

"Ah, yes! That sounds lovely. A large number of carbs to fuel my morning..." Okay, _ow_ , that last comment brought me physical pain. "Doyle's here to go with you." She nodded at me, and I stood.

When I opened the hatch, I had the fleeting glimpse of 'perturbed' on her face, but she stood straight and saluted quickly. "Aye, Mistress." I slipped out into the hall, and she gave the girl a small salute before returning to her paperwork. Abigail shut the hatch and then turned on me.

"You're awful early," she snarled.

I shirked back. "I'm... sorry?"

"Do you always get up this early?" she demanded. Apparently my readiness is not something the officers around here were used to.

"Err... usually, yeah." I held a hand to the back of my head, but she didn't answer. Instead, she took off down the hall. We reached the ladder that led to my birth and the galley, and she pointedly didn't look at me. I wondered what on earth had made her so upset, and if being early was really any good reason for it. With her unruly fury, she stomped on pretty quickly, and before long, we were at the entrance to the galley. She gave a huff, and then her emotions immediately vanished once more into a military posture. I cocked an eyebrow at the strange behavior. Was she always like this?

She entered the galley, as she always had, but this time I was right behind her. There were only a couple of people left for breakfast – one was Mary, who waved at me from across the room. I waved back.

"Mr. Montgomery, sir!" she reported, saluting. I did a meek echo. "Doyle and I are here for the officers' meals."

Cookie smiled and nodded at us. "Abigail, Doyle. Good morning. The usuals?"

"Aye, sir. Second Mate requests bacon, and the Captain a little extra on the potatoes. Other than that, the usual, sir."

He nodded and got to fixing the plates. "And you, Doyle?"

I blinked. "Sir?"

"How do you like your potatoes?" His smile was kind and patient, and more than a little amused.

"Err... Cheese. Bacon. Maybe some peppers and onions – sir."

He nodded, and before long, there were two stacks of meals – each with two.

"Who gets the Second Mate's?" he asked, the tips of his lips twitching.

Abigail shot a dark look to me. "You have the map, right, Doyle?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, pulling it out of my breast pocket.

She nodded curtly. "Doyle will take them." And with that, she turned and left, scuttling a bit less than usual, having half the load to carry. I frowned after her.

"Something the matter, Mr. Doyle?" Cookie asked.

"It's just... I think she's mad at me for something."

Cookie smirked. "Well. Judging from my experiences with her, she typically comes down around this time. But you like to get an early start, don't you?"

I nodded. "Yeah." It came from years of being asked to help around my mom's pub. I would get forced to help out anyway, but if I showed up early, and got my chores done early, I had more time to do what I wanted. "It's just a habit of mine."

Cookie nodded. "Well, you share something with our Captain. As it is, the First Mate emphasizes punctuality, and that's something Miss Abigail is very good at." His grin was a bit mischievous. "Your example is going to cost a lot of people a little bit of sleep. And Abigail's also been the only one with her particular job for as long as she's been here. You're competition." He placed the Second Mate's meal on the stack and winked at me before slipping back into the kitchen. I frowned as I considered that, but in doing so, my eyes rested on the closed meals. As I inhaled them, my own stomach began to grumble, and I quickly gathered the small stack and headed up to Officer Country.

The map was immediately invaluable. The top deck of the ship, also known as Level 1 on the map, had the focus of the bridge at the front, or bow, of the ship. A hallway ran down the center of the ship from the bridge to the sickbay, which was at the back, or stern. Another hallway circled the whole level. As you came out of the bridge, to the left was the ladder that Abigail and I had taken down to the galley. It was to my right, now, as I looked out the galley and toward my birth. To my left, the hallway also ended flat, and then went left or right. To the right was the second hall, and in the opposite corner of that ladder, the lift that I'd gone up with the First Mate my first morning.

"Bastards," I muttered, remembering the prank. I saw that the lift was up, and called for it. It took only a moment for the red light to change to green, and I opened the hatch and stepped inside. I pressed the button for 'Level 1' and checked my map again.

If I followed the outer trail to the left on coming out of the elevator, the Captain's quarters were in the corner before the loop around turned to the bridge – made sense, since he was the primary pilot, I supposed. The First Mate was on the other side of the ship, and her office was at the bow on the same side. In between was a navigations office and a library of sorts – these four rooms were actually highlighted in blue. I suppose I really was going to be the First Mate's assistant, and she wanted me to know where things were. On the Captain's side of the ship, a small birth was beside his – I assumed Abigail's – and another office-workspace, both of which were unlabeled. The last room was labeled as a radio room. Along the middle hallway, three doors lined each side. Most of it was birthing, but also the Second Mate's quarters and office. I stashed the map, and made my way to the center door on the left side of the long hallway, glancing at the perpetual light that flooded the hall from the bridge.

I knocked on the door, trying to sound confident.

"Abigail?" a voice called. "Breakfast?"

"Ah, Doyle, sir," I corrected. "But, yes. It's potatoes."

"Coming, coming..."

I waited, and the hatch opened to show a rather scruffy looking fellow with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. He yawned loudly, stretching his well-stuffed stomach in the rich red ship suit. He scratched himself and looked to me curiously.

"Doyle, eh? I haven't seen you before."

"I'm new, sir," I said. "Just a couple of days now."

He nodded. "Purple, eh? It's just as well." He took the top tray and backed into his room. "Cheerie-oh." He sat down on his bed – the room was as big as my own birth, and cracked open the lid, inhaling the scent. I had the image of a pig, being fed at the trough, but said nothing. I closed the hatch, and then wandered down the hall and around, back to the First Mate's office.

She was still scribbling away at her duties when I arrived, our meals in tow.

"Ah, Doyle! Excellent." She moved her papers out of the way, and I deposited the two trays on the table. She unstacked them and opened them up.

"Mm..." she sighed, closing her eyes and letting the warm, delicious air fill the room.

"I think... This one's mine," I said, pointing out the one that had onions, and I took it.

We ate companionably, most of the conversation being little more than happy noises and the occasional comments about how Cookie – or rather, Montgomery – was a wonderful person, and we really needed more like him in the world. It was nice, just sitting there, eating a lovely, hot meal, enjoying the company of the very friendly, cheery First Mate. Life was just so good and for that moment... It just was. And I was happy.


	7. Sentiment

After a luxuriously long breakfast (I actually ended up taking the First Mate up on her offer for coffee, and it was REALLY good. She brewed it strong and must have added something to it that Cookie didn't. I'd save my coffee for when I got to 'work' next time), I was pointed in the direction of the unlabeled workspace on the Captain's side of Officer Country. As I headed that way, I heard a loud, lazy grumbling, and spotted the Second Mate trudging from his sleeping quarters to his office. Next door. He didn't notice me, and I wasn't particularly inclined to attract his attention. In the bridge, it was quiet, though I could make out the Captain already at the helm, sipping a cup of coffee.

Even from this far away, he struck a distracting silhouette. That too-thin frame was draped in black, his tricorn looking almost silly. The fact that he was green wasn't too adamant, but he was just... a dark figure against the bright lights of the bridge. From here, you couldn't tell he had blood-red eyes and monstrous legs. He was merely a Kaeguri greenie, with jeweled ears and that irresistible charm that made them so popular all over the universe. He said something to one of the crew on deck, but I couldn't make it out. Just as well. I kept going and made my way to the work waiting for me.

The hatch was closed when I got there. I knocked politely, and Abigail's voice sounded like she was trying to be delightfully surprised at the company.

"Who is it?"

"Doyle. Mistress says there's some project you need help with?"

As she answered the door, I once more wondered why she seemed particularly frustrated with my mere existence. "Mistress said that did she?" she asked, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

I was reminded of the Captain and his pet snake. The pet snake that was just on the other side of the wall, now that I thought of it – my eyes glanced in that direction nervously.

"What on earth are you looking at?" she snapped. My eyes went back to her. "Why are you here?" Her eyes were sharp and pointy.

"Uh... She said you might need help." She huffed, and I put my hands up. "Hey, I'm just following orders."

"I was doing fine by myself!" She stomped back into the room, behaving quite a bit like the child she appeared to be. I shuffled my face, but she just dropped herself in the midst of scattered tools and parts, and her attention was on some wall of a gadget, that I couldn't quite identify right off the bat. I stood in the hall, awkwardly looking about, but no cavalry arrived, and no fairy godmother appeared to enlighten me as to how best handle the situation.

I eventually entered the room, closing the hatch beside me. I sat a little ways away, doing my best not to sit on anything (what few bits I had to move, I did so carefully, and she glared death-daggers at me as I did, but I tried not to notice; this kept her from actually saying anything) and we sat in an awkward, forced compromise. She sat and tinkered, and I just sat. Periodically, she'd consult a large page of directions, I wouldn't wonder, and she'd punctuate her screw-turning and tool-fetching with glowers in my direction. She'd been wrestling with an insert for about two minutes before I watched the fuming frustration become paramount, and she finally let loose a roar.

"GAH! What do you want?!"

I was actually not surprised when she let out her fury on me. I merely looked at my hands and tucked my legs close. "I'm just following orders," I said again.

"Following orders," she echoed, and then she grumbled some strange curse I had never heard before in my life.

For a moment, my curiosity outweighed my desire for continued existence. "Beg pardon?"

She looked at me from under her lashes, because apparently indulging in the foreign swear word was something she wasn't supposed to do without punishment. It took her a moment before she decided I wasn't going to do anything about it and gave a mischievous smirk.

"Just a Xoac curse word," she said curtly. "I can't expect you to know what it means."

I paled. I could guess where she learned it from, but that's not a tongue that translated well. Also, it could get you killed in some places. I wondered again how old she was. "My guess is 'my ass', from the context," I answered. But, at least she was talking to me. I peered over at her, and she did a little shake of her shoulders.

"Good guess," she said. "It's not a direct translation, but it's the same sentiment."

She returned to her task, but the way she said 'sehn-tih-mehnt' told me the word was likely as stolen as the curse. I watched her curiously, taking in this new information, but then she once again got frustrated by the component.

She growled. "Krell. Alright, I give up." She 'tossed' the object to the ground in a way that satisfied her need for violence without damaging the work. She looked at me. "You really wanna help? Fine. You can help."

She stood, then, and stretched, moving her body this way and that to loosen up whatever she'd made sore by bending over the craft. I stood as well, imagining that, at the very least, I'd have to take her spot, if we weren't to rearrange everything so that we could both work at once.

"So... What are you making exactly?"

She grinned. "Skimmer gun."

I gave her a dubious look, but the grin didn't disappear. "You're... kidding, right?" I asked, taking the cue.

"Nope!" she said, twisting her head so quickly, her hair whipped about her. "It's a replacement to one of the ones that got blasted recently." She gave a good-natured sigh as she looked down at the mess. "Unfortunately, the Captain is paranoid. Although he designed it originally, it went through several drafts before we could actually make it. At this point, we're at the construction stage, but I'm no Kaeguri, so it's taking me a long time to do." She was doing that rambling thing that kids did when they found a topic at hand that they considered themselves to be 'well informed' about. Usually with hilarious results. "I'm not as good at this kind of thing as the Captain is. So, yes. This is taking a while. And, yes. My fingers get in the way." She wiggled up her two hands, the pink digits flashing against her black ship suit. "That's what happens when you have four of them."

I wondered then how long she'd been working for the Captain, but rather than ask such a loaded question, I chose my footing carefully to move closer. "Can I see those instructions?"

"Sure." She plucked up the 'map', and I found that, yes, it was a kind of cannon, designed for a skimmer below. But it was covered in little bits and bobs and inserts, each with their own specific instructions, for various purposes that did truly seem a bit over the top. And... Yeah. It was in Kaeguri. Very messy Kaeguri.

"He... really wants all of this in there?" I asked, incredulously. It was no wonder she was frustrated. This thing would need a level of perfection in construction that was asking quite a bit of someone who wasn't a trained professional in engineering. I mean, a craft, sure. But this was pretty detailed stuff. I had been quite handy myself in fixing some of the mechanics around mom's pub, but this was way out of my league. I could give it a try, but it would not be easy. More of a puzzle than an assembly, really.

"That's the ninth rewrite," she replied, smiling. She decided she was going to try a different part and pieced some other contraption together.

I sat down, sighing. This... would take a while.

We worked in far more companionable silence for some time. Even though I knew we'd assembled quite a bit, the overall look of the thing was not terribly encouraging. But our work was interrupted by a ringing of something on Abigail's person.

"Oop... I think that's lunch," she said, pulling out a small device. It was some kind of makeshift timepiece, apparently. She nodded. "Yeah. Lunch." She looked up at me with a smirk. "Ready for another chore?"

"If it means food, sure," I answered, standing. I tried to watch my feet to avoid crushing anything.

The two of us headed for the bridge, but as we did, she stopped, ducking into the bridge.

"Captain?" she called.

Scott, the grouchy navigator from my first shift looked to us with narrowed eyes, and a pretty blond girl with soft blue eyes looked over at us. She seemed to be chewing gum of some sort and quietly blew a bubble at us curiously. At the helm, the Captain only turned his head.

"Lunchtime, Abigail?" he asked.

She stood straight, at a salute. "Yes, Captain." I followed suit and echoed her motions. "Will you take lunch here, Captain?"

He nodded. And then he turned around to look at me. Without moving his torso. "Doyle, the First Mate should be in her office."

And then he looked back out to the stars.

I spotted Scott shaking his head in some kind of pity, and the girl also turned back to her work with disinterest. She turned a dial on the radio, but Abigail left the bridge, and I followed.

"You'll want to get a copy of the menu," she said to me as we arrived at the ladder.

"Menu?" I asked.

When we got to the galley, she pointed out a message board that listed all of the meals, plotted for the rest of the month. "Cookie does them ahead of time. But since the officers don't eat down here, you'll have to let them know what the meal is. The First Mate and Second Mate are pretty easy – the Second Mate will eat pretty much anything, but the Captain can have a rather particular appetite."

I thought back to that disgusting soup that I'd delivered my first day. "Like that... geechee, or something?"

Abigail gave me a toothy grin. "Kimchi. Yeah, Cookie can't find the stuff for it all the time, but the Captain loves it." She took on her military posture and presented herself to the cook.

"Mr. Montgomery, sir. Here for the officers' meals."

"Ah, Abigail. And Doyle! I'll have them for you in a jiffy."

He disappeared into the kitchen, and I moved back to the menu.

I don't know why I hadn't noticed it before. But it was in the corner next to the galley doors, so I suppose I was just used to coming in and out through the kitchen doors and never saw them. Lunch was lasagna with garlic bread and a salad, with strawberry shortcake for dessert. Dinner was a pork chop with mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and apple pie with ice cream.

I frowned and returned to the counter, where Cookie had our meals ready.

"Here you are," he said. He tapped at a box with a wink. "Fresh sand cakes for the Captain."

Abigail allowed a small smile. "The Captain will be very glad to hear it." She gathered her pile, and I mine, but this time we marched together.

When we were out of the galley, I turned to her. "Sand cakes?"

"Er..." She bit her lip. "How do I describe it?" She looked at me. "Like I said before, the Captain can have a rather particular appetite, on account of his… anatomie." I gave her a nod. The word came off a bit strange, but I knew what she was going for. "Means there are some things he can't eat or, more likely, won't." We reached the lift, and she summoned it. "On that list of things, he don't like real sweet things. Sugary-sweet things. So, like, strawberries. Sweetcakes. He can't have 'em. So instead, we make these things called sand cakes. They're... kind of like gingerbread. Sort of. Or cornbread. Or something between them." She shrugged. "They're pretty good."

The lift arrived, and we slipped in. I rearranged my load, and pushed the button for Level 1. "So fresh sand cakes, eh?"

"Yep! The captain usually has a jar or three lying around somewhere. I know he has one next to the helm, one in his quarters, one in the workroom. I think the First Mate keeps a stash of them, too." She gave me a wink. "If you want, I can let you try one with our lunch."

New experiences were always welcome. Particularly culinary. "Sure."

The lift gave a 'ding!' and we slipped out. She debated for a moment, and then took the Second Mate's meal from me. "I'll get the Second Mate. You take care of the First Mate, and I'll meet you back at the workroom."

She took off down the center hall, and I followed the trail around to the First Mate's office.

I knocked, and was greeted with an impatient, "Who is it?"

"Doyle, Ma-Mistress," I corrected quickly. "Er, I have lunch."

The hatch opened quickly, and the First Mate smiled at me. She looked like she could use a break.

"Doyle, you're my savior." She gave a little laugh, and I handed her the meal.

"Lasagna," I said. "With salad, and strawberry shortcake."

"Ooh..." she said, peering in at it. And then she pulled a face. "Man, that means there's fresh sand cakes."

I smirked. "They're good, Mistress?"

"My personal recipe," she said with a wink. She deposited her lunch on her desk and slipped out of the office, nodding for me to follow. The mischievous grin on her face made me deathly curious as to what she was up to, but I didn't ask, and just followed her down the hall.

We managed to beat Abigail to the bridge. She pulled a face at us as if this was a game they often played, and we'd managed to win this round.

"HEY!"

It happened pretty quickly, but the First Mate managed to take the Captain's lunch box from Abigail, who looked horrified but couldn't fight the higher-ranking officer. There was a flash of black and green and red, and the Captain was there, his arms wrapped around the First Mate, clutching her arms to her side.

"Those are mine," he growled, white teeth and red eyes flashing, but there was a hint of a smirk to his lips. I backed up, clutching my own lunch, and Abigail looked rather frustrated.

"I just want one..." the First Mate teased, a huge grin on her face.

"You got sweets, back off," the Captain warned.

She squirmed as if to shimmy out of his reach, and he let her go but was in front of her with his unearthly speed. For all the power in his legs, he was swift and silent. His eyes were harsh, his ears pinned back, and his fingers folded around the lunch.

"Say please..." she teased.

He murmured something, his voice growling, and I marveled at how she stood up to him, even as I felt my voice disappear somewhere down my throat, and my own body crumpling in on itself as he seemed to grow a little bit, his form growing taller in intimidation. She giggled but relented. "Just one?" she asked.

"I haven't even gotten a chance to see them yet," he muttered, adding a hissing 'ch' noise. His fingers peeled open the lunchbox, letting it only face him, and his head ducked low to peer inside. He plucked out something that looked like a cookie, sand-colored, and with a rough texture. I could see the First Mate's fingers twitching, that devilish smile still on her face as the Captain sniffed at it, closing his eyes and then taking a bite.

"Mm..." He nodded, munching. Munching forcefully. Slowly. The First Mate's smirk went lopsided, and she folded her arms, shifting her weight to one side. Dramatically he swallowed.

"They're still soft," he whispered.

"Gimme!"

She launched for him, but he was already down the hall.

I looked to Abigail, but she just rolled her eyes, and I followed her, the corners of my lips twitching as I heard the First Mate give a squealing giggle, and we slipped back into the workroom with our lunches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...If you know what this is a reference to, you're completely right. Yes, that's what I based it off of. Don't tell anyone, because I swear no one else ever saw it.


	8. Chains

After the crazy with the Captain and First Mate, I had to admit, I was intrigued as to what all the fuss was about with these sand cakes.

Hidden in amongst all of the various trinkets and doodads and tools scattered around the shelves, Abigail pulled out a tin that rattled pleasantly – how she knew where to find it, I wasn't sure, but I guessed she'd worked in this room for a very long time.

The sand cakes were broken pieces of cake, surely, but had gotten hard, like a gingerbread. I picked one up, and they were certainly crumbly – I took a bite, and the spice and rich, mellow flavor could probably be rather well-liked. The rough texture certainly suggested 'sand', but I wasn't very impressed.

I swallowed. "Needs some sweetening."

Abigail smirked. "That's sand cakes for you." She closed the tin, looking over her shoulder reflexively, and then hid the cakes once more. "It's an old recipe, something the First Mate brought from her homeland."

"Right. The First Mate says it was her personal recipe."

Abigail nodded. "You can't find exactly the same types of things here as she had back home, so it took a lot of experimenting. But, it works."

We settled down to lunch and ate in companionable silence. The salad was fresh and crisp, and the lasagna warm and soft and hearty. If I was going to stay on this ship, I needed to get up and move more, or I'd get fat over Cookie's cooking. I forced myself to finish before diving into the strawberry shortcake, which was tart and sweet and light after the hearty lasagna. We were both licking our lips with empty trays, which we reluctantly set aside and got back to work.

It was again slow going.

And then, "GALE!"

It came out of nowhere, and immediately Abigail was up and out of the workroom, faster than you'd really believe. I sat there for a moment, stunned and shocked by the sudden bark, and also at her instantaneous absence. The gadget I'd been holding out to her hovered in my fingers, and for an awkward moment, I wondered if it was assumed I was to join her... Or if the Captain just wanted his assistant.

"DOYLE..."

While the first was only an order, mine was definitely more of a warning. I dropped the trinket and was likewise out of the hatch. I ran to the bridge, and found Abigail a ways inside, and joined her in standing at a salute before the Captain. Her military demeanor was firmly in place, but her face had paled a bit, and I'm sure "scared" applied well. The Captain was at his full height, looking down at us with narrowed, glowing eyes, his hat and jacket gone, and his hands moving at his waist – fingers curling and writhing around a length of thick, steel chain that looked bright against his black scales. My veins were flooded with ice-cold dread at the rather threatening sight, and I tried to avoid eye contact. Something about intimidating beasts that my mind couldn't quite explain to me at the moment, but assured me it was for the best. Behind him, even the First Mate was decidedly more subdued than she'd been all day. She was turned away from us, standing on the opposite side of the helm, looking out into the black sky, and both of the crew on bridge watch were surprisingly absent.

My attention nevertheless kept coming back to the chains, the thick links grinding against each other as he wrapped them tightly around those long, thin, green fingers. It was all I could hear, or see. All too easily I could imagine the cold, hard links closing in around my neck. Or maybe his fingers using those steady, strong hands to tear me to pieces, to squeeze the life out of me just because he needed something to throttle. All I could hear was the grinding and the gnashing. Steel and green on black, writhing and turning and pulling and churning...

I daresay the choice of weapon was purposeful. Whatever the sound and action did for his nerves, his posture seemed to come down a note. The Captain finally stretched the short length of chain in his hands, unraveling what he'd done, and then tossed it over a shoulder, the links dancing and jingling together as one green hand held the steel against his black ship suit. I looked up to find his yellow-red eyes narrowed down at me.

"I apologize, Mr. Doyle," he said quietly, a dark strength in his words. But the apology unnerved me all the more. "I'm afraid we here on the _Condor_ haven't quite been living up to our reputations." Here, he looked back to the First Mate, who I think bowed her head in shame. "I've been a mite too lenient. And it's important that we remember our place."

He pulled the chain from his shoulder, and my eyes followed it as it hung limply in the air, just not touching the ground. How many times had he performed that gesture, that he knew the length so well? I gulped, looking back up at him, a cramp developing in my saluting arm.

His mouth opened, and I heard an inhaling of air around the vicious teeth. "We have... company coming," he said, turning to the side, and taking a step. My mind flickered back to the First Mate's summation of the day's priorities. _We're due to have a guest later this afternoon, and you'll be expected to play maid for him_. I braced myself, wondering what kind of company the monstrous pirate Captain played host to. As he walked, I noticed his tail - it was hard not to. It was lashing from side to side like an angry whip, like it was restless to throttle something. I shivered.

At the end of his step, he turned back to us. "Abigail." She moved ever so slightly to display her rapt attention. "You will continue with the project. Doyle, here..." He nodded to me, and I'm sure I stiffened. "...Will see to our guest. You are dismissed."

Abigail nodded, bowing low. "Thank you, Captain." And then she was gone.

I wondered if I was shaking. I felt like I was shaking. I wouldn't blame myself if I was shaking. The Captain moved forward again, the chain in one hand, his fingers tracing the linked metal like a rosary, the other held behind him in a loose fist. He took two steps, gods-knew-what on his mind, and then he stopped. He turned, to look out at the First Mate. And then he peered at me out of the corner of his eye.

For a moment, he regarded me, I think. Perhaps out of curiosity, but I had the feeling he was sizing me up. Maybe like a crocodile, imagining how well I'd fit within his skin. But then he looked forward again, taking another step, and I realized he was waiting for something. He tossed the chain back over his shoulder as he turned, ready to take another step when the First Mate spoke.

"He's here," she said, turning back to us. Her face looked worried, but she was trying to hide it.

The Captain removed his chain, and made his way to the pilot's chair, dropping it into his seat. Neither the First Mate nor myself moved as he did so, and then he looked to her.

"Send Doyle down to retrieve our guest. And bring him to the Bridge." He then bent down to retrieve his hat, which was lying on the floor nearby – I imagined tossed in a fit of rage – and also the jacket. I looked to the First Mate, who nodded sharply.

I imagined that she'd given an order? I nodded. "Yes, Mistress. Captain."

He didn't reply, and I left the bridge. I... wasn't sure where to go, but I wanted _out_ of Officer Country. I imagine I could have asked Abigail what I was supposed to do, but she was in the wrong wing of the ship – the closest exit was the ladder that led to Level 2 and the galley.

On level 2, I found myself in familiar territory. There was the bathroom, and my birth, and the galley. I pulled out the map with shaking hands and investigated what I was supposed to do.

Here on the second level, the mid path worked in a similar fashion, but the three births on my right ended in this small bathroom, the galley and kitchen taking up the left side. At the back of the ship was that split – in one corner was the lift, and a roundabout followed around the ship, but on the other side of the bathroom's wall was the hangar bay. I spotted a shortcut through the kitchen and decided I would ask Cookie for what to do. He was here the longest, he'd know the minds of the officers... right?

I knocked quickly on the kitchen door, perhaps too quickly. Likely, because when Cookie answered the door, he did so with a worried look on his face.

"Doyle? What's wrong? What's happened?" he asked immediately, looking out behind me.

"I need to find a guest," I said quickly, realizing now that my breathing was coming in shallow gasps. My voice sounded ridiculously weak. "The Captain's in a right temper and I don't want to make him any more mad."

"Of course, m'boy, of course," he said quickly, and let me cut through the kitchen to the door on the other end, a large hatch that would be how they got stock in. "Right through here, hangar bay. Most likely place. He'll come in through a skimmer, yeah? You'll know him as the only new face. You know what a new face looks like, right?" He suddenly seemed unsure, even as I stepped out of his place of business. "You have any problems, you holler for me, okay?"

His voice was scarce, and it was scary. I nodded. "Sure, Cookie. I... I take him up the lift, right?"

He nodded, solemn. "That's best, m'boy. That's best."

I gave him a quick salute. And then, "Sir."

He waved at me, then, that ghost of a smile returning, and growled, "Get out of here..." I heard him chuckle weakly behind me, and I followed around the last corner.

The hangar bay was actually pretty quiet, now that there weren't people moving things in and out. As I stepped in, I remembered coming in with Rhea, but going on the other side. I glanced about, and then checked the map.

I cursed. "I shoulda gone to Abigail..." The ladder that led to the galley was just outside the bridge – one I knew too well and, being stressed, I went where I knew. But just across the way from the Captain's quarters – where I'd have been if I'd asked Abigail for help instead, just my bloody luck – was another that led straight to the hangar bay. I stashed my map, and moved into sight around all the rides, their stormy cloud grey reminding me too much of the chain the Captain had been wrapping around his fingers. Blood red and swamp green and stormy sea blue accents –

Except the one at the front. It had scarlet accents, yes, but the base color was a bright, polished silver – like that chain when it had been new. Inside it, a long, lean fellow with shaggy dark hair that fell almost to his shoulders, a healthy, better-groomed beard on his chin. He wore black, a leather jacket on his shoulders, decorated in several pins, not unlike the First Mate's jacket. He was chattering at an orange-suited cargoman, who seemed rather disturbed to have a new ride in his hangar.

"Where's the Captain?" the stranger was saying, a nasty grin on his face. He tucked his locks behind his left ear, and I spotted a silver ring glint in the light. "First Mate? Somebody?" I stepped forward, and his eyes found me. He seemed definitely surprised.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, saluting.

The cargoman – I think his name was Roger – visibly paled, and saluted me. The rider listened.

"I'm Doyle – the Captain is waiting for you in the bridge."

The rider nodded. "Roger that." He got out of his ride and tossed a black helmet at the cargoman, who hardly caught it. "Not a scratch, mate, or I'll take it off your hide." He nevertheless ordered a nearby purple to help him move it to the side, definitely not happy with this unexpected turn of events. I looked back at them and then turned my attention to the stranger.

He seemed in a mischievous mood, his leather jacket showing signs of love and abuse. He didn't wear a ship suit, but every day wear. His boots were pointed and dusty, and he smelt a bit of musk and gasoline. His bright blue eyes looked down at me curiously.

"Are you the new Second Mate?" he asked me.

I shook my head. "No, sir," I answered, assuming that he was of higher status than myself. "I'm the First Mate's assistant."

He nodded, taking that in stride. "Alright."

I led him down the path that went around the ship, and we arrived at the lift – it was curiously downstairs.

"This way, sir." He stepped into the lift, and I imagine he tossed his head in a self-important manner, standing with one hand clasping his wrist. I entered after him and pushed the button to Level 1.

I really wanted to ask him who the hell he was, and what he was here for, and why it meant the Captain was in such a sore mood. I hardly liked the Captain as he normally was, much less in the kind of state where he was carrying around chains. It gave me the idea that the Captain had a very literal translation of 'chain of command' that I'd really rather not work under...

But the lift gave a 'bing!' to state we were there, and I kept my mouth shut.

"This way, sir..." I said again, keeping my head down as we cut through the center passage. I noticed that the Second Mate's office's hatch was still open, and I chanced a glance inside as we walked by. He was passed out, snoozing on his desk. I felt my nose crinkle in disgust but said nothing.

In the bridge, the Captain was at the helm, and the navigator and communications girl were back. Scott looked up, and observed the stranger's entrance, but said nothing. The girl's chewing gum was absent, and she was listening to her radio with a hand ready for anything that needed transcribing.

"Captain," I said as we entered, and I saluted. "Your guest."

The Captain looked back at us with a warm, dangerous smile. "Yes. Welcome."


	9. The Captain's Business

The stranger gave the Captain a huge, dramatic bow – and for a moment, I was terrified for his sake that the Captain might consider it mocking. Instead, the Captain... smirked.

"Spike," he greeted. And then his smirk grew bigger, broadcasting those dangerous blades. "Or is it Jules, these days?"

"Ah, Spike's for the crew," he answered, throwing his body into a nearby chair. Scott spared a glance at him but returned his eyes to his work. "But you can call me Jules, Cap'n."

He had a certain, youthful charm, his bright eyes glittering with mischief. You couldn't really see the smirk tugging on his lips under the scraggly hair, but you could hear it in his voice. The Captain regarded him with interest, and 'Jules' seemed to be daring him.

"Very well, then," the Captain replied. " _Jules_. How is business treating you?" He stepped from the helm, his hands clasped behind him, his own coat and hat garbed about him as was befitting a captain. Behind him, I noticed that the First Mate had vanished, and wondered if I should go to her, now that my task was done, or stay on hand.

"Oh, well as one can expect," Jules answered, his eyes sweeping over the Captain's form rather quickly - he was taking it far better than I had. "I mean, crew." He gave a grunt. "People are stupid, I tell you that." He gave a lopsided grin. "But I don't need to tell _you_ that, do I? Captain." The title was added after a pregnant pause. I was honestly surprised the Captain didn't correct him.

The Captain walked closer, and yet his posture was not yet returning to the intimidating one he'd held earlier. As he moved, his eye caught mine, as if he hadn't seen me come in and report Jules' arrival.

"Doyle. You may stand down."

I relaxed my posture, but my back was still stiff with apprehension. I looked to the stranger, and then to the Captain, but he was looking at Jules again – I decided I didn't want to risk leaving without an official dismissal. Something reminded me that the length of chain was likely still on the bridge somewhere, waiting for any misbehavior. So I stood aside and set myself to observe the exchange.

The Captain actually took a seat. Not next to, but close to Jules. They could observe each other easily enough, and I had the definite impression that Jules was a young master testing a new equal. Or someone he didn't quite think of as an equal. But he wasn't sure.

"The _Black Falcon_ does well, I hope?" I heard a jingling, and I'm sure I saw the Captain's ears dance behind him.

And Jules reached up and brushed his hair away from his face. I was a little surprised to see that... he too had a ring in either ear – a silver on his left, and gold on his right. "Very well," he said, tying his hair into a tie that was coincidentally on his wrist. The two of them shared a knowing smile.

"I'm glad to hear it." The Captain turned to me. "Doyle. Be a dear and head down to the galley – have Montgomery make a setting for tea."

I blinked but didn't take the moment to think about it. "Yes, Captain."

"Montgomery?" I heard Jules chuckle. "That old bugger?"

But I didn't hear much else. I was out of the bridge, and down the ladder to Level 2. I kicked myself again for not checking the map earlier but headed to the kitchen. This time, my knock was sure and casual.

Cookie answered, but stress and apprehension were still on his face. I noticed the silver ring in his ear with more interest but didn't ask.

"Captain needs a setting for tea," I said quickly.

Montgomery closed his eyes. He seemed to be holding his tongue but just ducked into the kitchen, waving me in after him.

It was late in the afternoon for the lunch rush. I spotted Mary lounging around in the room and watched her curiously... But, there. No, she wasn't wearing a ring. I looked to Tim, who was wiping down a table nearby... No, no ring there, either. I frowned, wondering what it meant, and turned back to Cookie. I had opened my mouth to ask the question anyway, but he pushing a tray into my hands.

"Who is it?" he asked, worried. "What did he look like?"

"Uhm..." He stared at me, and I swallowed. "Young? Maybe not as young as I think, he's got a lot of hair. Dark hair. Bright blue eyes. Goes by... Jules." Cookie frowned. "Or Spike."

Comprehension. "Oh..." He turned away, and busied himself, pulling out a stash of cookies. He got a plate and served it on the tray. The pot he'd put on in the corner was burbling, but not quite whistling. He found another cabinet and pulled out a box filled with a myriad of boxes. He picked through them, making a small assortment, and deposited the little packages onto the tray in a neat row. I eyed the pot nervously but forced myself to look away.

"Tea, water, biscuits, ah..." Cookie was muttering to himself, and then a 'ha!' before he delved into the fridge, and pulled out a couple of jars. "Jam. Maybe... No, bread and butter won't do." He cursed. "I don't have any scones..." But he did find the buns that he'd pulled out for Abigail and set two of those to cook. "And the Captain will want..." He reached high in a shelf and pulled out a tin that looked startlingly similar to the one that Abigail had upstairs in the workroom. He shook the tin, and heard some rattling. He muttered again as he opened it, but took the last of the sand cakes and arranged them with the cookies. He put the jam away, and peered at the buns, before stopping, scratching his head. I watched him mutter to himself, almost amused at the flustered cook, if not nervous that I would then have to serve the guest upstairs, and promptness would definitely be called on.

No, not promptness. Promptness was the First Mate's usual. The Captain liked things being done _early_.

I looked nervously at the pot again but forced my eyes away once more.

"Ah, damn. Yeah, I'll put in the jam – you can serve it on sand cakes if you like..." He set the jams on the tray and stared at them. I so wished I could help him out, but... I really didn't know what I could contribute to the tray that he hadn't already mentioned. And then he took the jam. "No, no... We don't want him taking the Captain's sand cakes. Oh, he wouldn't like that at all..." He put the jam back away, and I twisted my mouth to keep away the smirk that threatened to come.

I watched the cook putter around the kitchen nervously, collecting a pair of teacups, and even a serving of sugar, milk, and cream from the coffee station, until the buns gave a 'ding!'. He quickly retrieved them from the salamander and got a pair of small plates – plates that were apparently dusty. So he rinsed them quickly and dried them before depositing the hot buns on the tray.

At that moment, the watched pot whistled. I let a tiny smile out as he cackled madly, lifting the pot from the stove.

"Excellent," he said, retrieving a porcelain teapot that was decorated in something rather pretty – he filled it with the hot water, and set it on my tray.

"There we are. Lovely, yes?" he said, looking to me for approval.

I shrugged. "Looks good, Cookie."

And then he was his old self again. "Of course it does! I'm fantastic like that. TIM! Go fetch the lift for Doyle! Hot tray for the Captain!"

The order caught the attention of the few crew that were lounging around – including Mary, who waved at me. I could only nod in reply before slipping out of the hatch that Cookie held for me.

Tim rushed down the hall and was around the corner. I tried to move as quickly as I could, cursing for a moment the balance I lost by not taking that 'stupid' ballet class that my mother had nearly forced me to take some time ago. Because if ballerinas could keep themselves on one toe, a tray on two hands must be easy cake. I eyed the pot, but nothing splashed out, so I counted it a success as I slipped into the lift.

"Thanks, Tim," I said with a lopsided smile.

"No prob," he answered, jabbing the Level 1 button before ducking out of the doors' way. His smirk was decidedly 'better you than me' as he waved me off.

The water was kind of heavy. And hot. I reminded myself that spilling this tray would be very bad for my health – firstly because I'd scald myself on the boiling water, and secondly because the Captain would likely tear me a new one. A new what, I wasn't sure, but it couldn't be good.

I made it to Level 1 and again did my best to scuttle down the hall. My eyes went from the floor before my feet to the tray in my grip to the bridge and back between them, but the Captain and 'Jules' were busy chattering away about whatever it was they were chattering about.

When I finally got to the bridge, another horrifying realization hit me.

"Your tea tray, Captain," I said. The pair of them turned to me in amusement. The Captain's expression was one of, 'yes, and?', while the visitor regarded me as the onboard entertainment. "Er, where should I put this?" I debated adding a second 'Captain', but also scanned the room for anything resembling a table, or that could be moved.

The Captain rolled his eyes. "Scott," he ordered. "Fetch Doyle one of the workman's tables, and do be quick about it."

I could feel Scott's rage from here, but he only uttered, "Yes, Captain," and literally pulled a table out of the floor. I blinked at it as he locked it into place, the Captain and his guest watching on, and when the navigator pulled away, I put the tray on the table.

"Milk, cream and sugar," I reported, pointing to each of them. "A variety of teas, hot water, cookies, sand cakes, and hot buns..."

I looked up, and the Captain seemed pleased by the return of his impromptu order. His guest eyed the tray with delight.

"Wow, Captain, I'mma have to come visit more often." The stranger dug into the tea tray, choosing one of the buns and remarking pleasantly how it was 'hot and fresh', a way to cover his injuries.

"Thank you, Doyle," the Captain said to me, nodding. "You are dismissed."

"Thank you, Captain," I said, bowing low. I exited the room, looking to Scott, who seemed to have an 'I told you so' look on his face. It put me a little off guard, but I made a note to ask him about those tables later.

I dipped into the hall and debated for a moment what to do next. There was the project that Abigail was working on... But my mind went to the First Mate. She hadn't been in the bridge when I'd returned, and I was worried as to what the Captain might have done to her to cause such a change from happy and giggly not an hour or two before to as sober and worried as she'd been on the guest's arrival. I decided, if nothing else, she was technically my primary concern – being her assistant – and so I headed to her office.

I knocked on the door. I was almost surprised to hear her answer, "Who is it?"

I was hurt by the harsh, hollow tone to her words. "It's Doyle, Mistress," I answered softly. "May I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," she said. "Code's 1-3-9-0."

I punched the code into her lock and opened the hatch. Inside, she was behind her desk, her face hidden by the hand that held up her temple. She was leaning over paperwork, and I closed the hatch behind me as I sat before her.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. She scribbled on her paper, and I waited, my mind racing, trying to figure out what it was I wanted to say. I rested my hands on my knees and shuffled my face as I debated.

Finally, the First Mate gave a 'heh'. "What is it, Doyle?"

I looked up at her, but she didn't look at me. "I was just... checking to see how... you were," I answered, lamely. "If there was anything I could do for you. Mistress."

At that, she looked up. I wondered idly if she'd been crying because I didn't see redness or puffiness in her eyes. But her face was certainly drawn, and weary. She blinked at me as if she didn't know what to say to that. And then, she smiled softly. "Thank you, Doyle. I do imagine that's what I have you for."

I shifted in my seat, knowing that how I phrased my next question could have an effect on my lifespan. "Excuse me, Miss- Mistress. But... what's going on?"

"In what sense?" she asked. Her voice was cold and guarded. And I again wondered what had made her change so.

"Well... In general. In specific. Like, who that man is, in the bridge. Why a while ago you and the Captain were fighting over sand cakes, and now... You're..." I fought over the word. "...Brooding in your office."

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Brooding?" She let out a small laugh. "You think I'm brooding?"

I shrugged, nervous. It was a better reaction than I could have gotten. She could have yelled, or screamed. Or thrown something large and book-sized at my head. "I don't know, Miss-tress." I really needed to practice saying 'mistress' more. "It's just that... this morning you were cheery and happy, and now you're... Well, not."

This seemed to amuse her. Not in a terribly funny ha-ha sort of way, but an 'it's funny you should say that' kind of way. "That... is a rather private business, Doyle," she said, and I almost got a hint of embarrassment in her voice.

"Because you two are sleeping together?"

And then I said it. I'm sure I went pale. Me and my big mouth. I've always had a habit of asking too many questions, and now I'd gone and done it.

I bowed my head low. "I'm sorry, Mistress, I didn't mean it like that," I said quickly. I even held up my hands in supplication. "It's just... Well, I heard you two this morning, couldn't be helped. I don't mean to pry or spy or intrude at all, nothing like that. But... Well, my crime is curiosity." I chanced a glance up. "And curiosity killed the cat, you know. I'mma die asking the wrong question one day, my mama always told me that."

In my whole monologue, the First Mate had said nothing, but she stared at me. I imagine she didn't know what the hell to make of my big mouth. Whether I was brave or just stupid. And for the record, I was just stupid. I wondered exactly what kind of hell it was I'd just brought on myself.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," I said again, hiding my face once more. "I really am. If you two are having problems, I understand. I just... I want to know what I can do to... To help you."

I waited for a moment, and then looked back up at her. She was still regarding me with that same look, doubtless questioning my sanity. And then she looked at her forms and sighed, closing her eyes.

"Alright, Doyle." She closed the book, resting her hand on it. "It does make sense that _you_ know what's going on. And I suppose it's better than letting you draw your own conclusions." She looked up at me, and I'm sure I rearranged myself in my seat.

"The Captain and I..." she started, looking off to the side, likely trying to decide how to explain it. She met my eyes again. "I'm sure you've noticed that the Captain isn't your typical Kaeguri."

I gave her a dubious look. "You mean, with the helm watch, or the being green and black bit?" I asked.

She gave a small laugh. "The green and black bit." I eased a bit, hearing the sweet sound.

My eyes moved to the map behind her. "I assume he's not from around here - Raptors aren't too common on this side of the cosmos." Neither was her kind, for that matter.

She smiled sadly. "Then you have a good idea how he came to be?"

I nodded. "Ain't a pretty story, no matter how you tell it." I couldn't imagine doing things like Xoac are said to do. And if I managed to create a bastard from it, I certainly wouldn't sell them like collectible trading cards, but it's what they say happens. "Mistress," I added quickly. I kept forgetting it - I was going to get in trouble for it eventually.

"You're fine, Doyle," she said quietly. "Quite honestly, you don't have to call me 'Mistress' all the time. At least... not when it's just the two of us in here."

I nodded. "Alright." I fought the reactive 'ma'am' and relished not having to translate it to 'Mistress' again.

Then she seemed to shake herself. "Anyway. My point is, the Captain... has been through a lot of bullshit. A lot of real, not nice things. He's got a dark past, and we must do our best not to remind him of it." She straightened in her seat. "And we mustn't question him. He's the Captain, and he knows what he's doing." She cleared her throat. I realized that I'd gone and asked the wrong question again. She opened her book once more. "As for the visitor... That's his business. Not mine. He has his own ways of doing things, and it's not my place to question him."

I wondered if that's what the Captain had meant earlier by ' _remember our place'_. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I realized that the First Mate was just as trapped here as the rest of the crew.

It was silent for a moment, and I knew now that the heaviness that was Officer Country wasn't because it was Officer Country... but because of the Captain. My mind went back to what Mary had said, during my first shift aboard. ' _It's a very tough job, navigator. Mostly, because the Captain is almost always on the bridge, and... Well, quite honestly, he terrifies a lot of people.'_ I regarded the First Mate and felt sympathy for her. She kept her head down on her report, and I guessed that you couldn't get any more blood once somebody turned to stone.

"I'll be going, Mistress," I said, standing. "Maybe I'll help Abigail with the project."

She nodded, not looking up. "Carry on, Doyle."

I exited the office and closed the hatch behind me. I slipped around the back, avoiding the bridge. But as I made to cross the hall, I glanced that way.

I couldn't see them, but I could just picture the two, black-jacketed persons sipping on Cookie's hurriedly made tea and swapping meaningless dialogue that no one was meant to understand. There was indeed a game afoot, but it was purely of the Captain's manufacturing. I scowled but said nothing as I continued on to the workplace, to see what I could do to help Abigail.


	10. The Rings

"DOYLE!"

I was immediately up and out, abandoning Abigail to the project. I made my way to the bridge, and the Captain was standing there with his guest. The guest smirked at me, and the Captain seemed likewise pleased.

"He's a quick one, isn't he?" the Captain asked him. The other man in black chuckled.

"That he is. Say, what would he cost?"

"Oh, 'fraid I can't," the Captain replied, putting up a hand. "Far too useful. But I have a couple in mind if you like. Strong-backed fellows. We're due in Stockerd soon. Figure we'll stock up then if the prices suit your fancy?"

'Jules' forced a smile. "Certainly, Captain."

"Excellent. Doyle, please escort this fine young man down to his ride." He saluted the stranger, and the stranger saluted him back. They shook hands, then, and 'Jules' stepped toward me. Behind him, the Captain's face hardened, but he caught my eye, and gave me a wink.

I... didn't know what it meant. It stunned me for a moment, and I remembered that... it was all a game. A sick and twisted game I didn't know the rules to, but with my small role so far, I was likely to stay in the dark for a while.

The Second Mate's door was closed as we slipped by, and I ushered the Captain's company on to the lift. I wondered again what that wink might have meant... but I certainly wasn't going to ask _him_ , and I didn't want to upset the First Mate again. Maybe Abigail. Or even Cookie...

While I was pondering this, our lift arrived at Level 2.

"This way, sir," I said, gesturing outside the lift, but not meeting his eye. His arms swung loosely around him as he meandered into the hall. I moved forward to guide him back to the hangar bay.

And then he grabbed me. I honestly wasn't expecting the strong hand that caught my cloth on my ship suit, and barely gave out a "Hey!" as he manhandled me, tossing me against a wall.

"Yer just a grunt," he snarled. He shoved an arm into my neck, and I gagged. "Shut up and answer my questions." His face peered into mine. "Tell me true," he hissed, jabbing a finger in my face. "Who's the captain of this ship?"

"C-Captain. The Captain's... Captain," I answered, my voice choked. I wondered if anyone heard my yell, but this late into the third shift, Cookie would be cooking dinner, and the loose crew would be keeping themselves busy somewhere else, where they didn't have to endure the smell of dinner ripening in their midst.

"That's not an answer," the stranger growled.

"Honest!" I squeaked. "We-we don't know his name. The Captain is only known as 'the Captain', that's all he goes by." His snarl grew deeper. "Honest! That green guy up there is Captain! Please, I'm just a greenie, I don't know nothing! Hell, I didn't even know what 'greenie' meant a month ago."

Whoever this stranger was as far as 'friends' went, he didn't seem to trust the Captain. I couldn't blame him for that, but whatever game the Captain and First Mate were playing, they were in cahoots. To some extent. How else could she endure sharing a bed with the twisted toad? The praise I could count on, and the First Mate's spell of truth-telling wasn't here. And I hardly felt anyone would buy me earning a reputation as 'too useful' on my third-day on-ship, regardless of what Cookie said.

The bastard's bright blue eyes flashed dangerously, but he let me go.

We stared at each other for a moment, until he spoke again, straightening his jacket with the hand that had been in my face.

"This didn't happen," he hissed, and he turned away. He pulled the hair tie out of his hair, letting the straggly mess fall down again. I swallowed the lump in my throat, touching my neck nervously, and continued the tour.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him remove the earrings, and stash them on his person. My curiosity was piqued, but he was not someone I wanted to consult on the mystery. We made our way to the hangar bay, but Roger was gone – Alice met us at the stranger's ride.

"Leaving us so soon?" she asked. "Let me fetch your helmet for you." She floated away, but not before giving me a small nod and salute of recognition.

'Jules' scoffed. "Give me a break." He climbed into his ride, fishing a key from a pocket inside his black, leather jacket. When Alice returned, he snatched it away from her; she didn't react but kept that same sweet smile.

"Have a nice trip," she said.

The stranger turned on and sealed his ride, and rolled it out of the neat row of skimmers, trying awkwardly to avoid the dark steeds that surrounded him. Alice nodded to an extra at the hatch, and the doors exposed the hangar bay to the cold exterior. We watched the man in black taxi down the runway, but the extra slammed the internal hatch shut before he made it to the end.

"Come along, Janice," she said to the extra. She nodded at me. "Doyle. Tell the Captain I send my love. And your ship suits should be done in the next day or two. Maybe three, depending on how tonight goes..."

I wanted severely to ask her what that meant but didn't.

I reported back to the bridge, and the Captain was at the helm.

"Captain. Doyle, reporting back, sir."

He glanced back at me, then turned back to the stars. That gold ring glinted in the lights. "Thank you, Doyle."

"Aye, Captain," I answered, bowing low. I turned to go, but he spoke again.

"Alice saw him off, yes?"

I stopped, looked back. He still was facing the deep dark, his hands on the helm.

"Er, Aye, s-Captain."

"Dismissed."

"Aye, Captain." I bowed again, and then... "Oh, uh... Alice sends her love to you... Captain."

It was an awkward pause, but I imagine he smiled. It sounded like it.

"Thank you, Doyle. You are dismissed."

I bowed once more and ducked out of the bridge.

Dinner came and went, and I felt disturbed by what had happened. Well, the whole day had been odd, to be honest. I learned the Captain was sleeping with the First Mate, and Abigail had been rather off-put by my presence in general... but we'd managed a workable alliance. I imagined it would get better as it went on. And then the Captain and his guest...

I found myself touching my throat, and although Abigail noticed – she did glance at me out of the corner of my eye – she said nothing, nor did she make any sign to signify that she had. But she looked.

The game the Captain was playing – what was the purpose of it? He was keeping his cards very close to his chest, and whatever hand of poker had been going on during the bridge, the 'guest' seemed rather perturbed by it. And what was the comment about selling people? Press-ganged, sure, but I'd never heard of the _Condor_ being a slave ship. And if he was a product of the system… Well, it wasn't unheard of that some Toads traded in their own kin. But you'd think someone with a lineage like that would be very much against it. Though there was also the mystery of the earrings...

I looked to Abigail, as the thought returned to me.

"Hey, Abigail?"

"Hmm?" She didn't look up from the gadget she was working on. I had my own wall of 'crib' – I still didn't believe they intended to put a person in this thing, if it went nuclear it would not be good for the pilot – and she had hers, so we weren't getting in each other's way. Or space.

"I was wondering. Did you notice how some people wear earrings?"

She stopped at that and looked up at me. Not full-on, but tilted her head just enough so that she could look at me, though her brow was still furrowed. Like she was hiding her face. "Lots of people wear earrings."

"Yeah, but..." It did sound kind of stupid. "But I've noticed certain people all have the same ones. Like Cookie, and Alice. They wear a silver earring in their left ear – even the Captain's guest had one. Before he took it off, that is..."

She put down her craft, though it seemed out of shock. "He took it off?"

"Yeah..." Oh, I was definitely on to something. "The gold one, too. Captain's the only one who has a gold earring – does that mean the visitor was a Captain, too?"

Abigail pursed her lips and scanned the objects scattered around her as if looking for an idea of what to do with this information. "Did you... tell the Captain this?"

I shuddered involuntarily. "No way. The Captain gives me the creeps." So did the small, sick smile she gave me then. "Besides... If he hangs out with people like that, I don't know how much I want to hang out with him." I touched my throat again, and Abigail took note of it, but again, didn't say anything.

It was quiet for a moment. I noticed what I was doing, and took my hand away.

"But... What do you know about the rings?" I asked, trying to sound conversational as I made to work on my piece of the project – even if I wasn't really focusing on it.

At first, it seemed like she was trying to ignore me. But she sighed. "It's... It's something the Captain does," she said begrudgingly. "Not many people have taken the ring, but... It's a sign of loyalty."

I frowned. "But... the First Mate doesn't have a silver earring in her left ear."

Abigail laughed darkly. "Oh, she wants his ring alright, just not in her ear..." But she caught herself and coughed. "It's different for her. She's known him since before he became Captain. The rings are for... crew. Not her."

She pointedly set to screwing on something, and I observed her for a moment.

Finally, I spoke my observation. "You don't have a ring."

"Yeah, I do," she said quickly, and her hand instantly went to her ship suit. Out from under the cloth, she pulled out a small, simple chain, and at the end of it was a silver ring, just like the earrings. She fingered it lovingly as she looked down on it. "Captain won't let me get my ears pierced – says I'm too young. But if I wanted the sentiment," (I see where she learned the word), "I could wear one. Until I'm old enough to make the decision properly. As an adult." She sounded a bit miffed by it, but the compromise suited her. She slipped it back in her ship suit, touching it fondly through the cloth. "I've had it for almost two years now."

My eyes widened. "How long have you been here?" I asked before I could think better of it.

"Oh, quite some time," she nodded. "I'd honestly been pestering the Captain for a while about it before he got me one. It's real tricksy pestering the Captain, by the way," she chuckled. "He has a right temper, and he can get pretty dangerous if you're not careful." She looked away sadly. "He's pretty good about keeping himself from hurting anyone, though."

I wondered then, what way she'd learned that lesson. And what she meant by these things. I could guess, considering he was half-Xoac. It was the same sadness that I think the First Mate had spoken with – " _The Captain... has been through a lot of bullshit. A lot of real, not nice things. He's got a dark past, and we must do our best not to remind him of it._ And then the visitor, and now these... tokens of loyalty? My curiosity wandered to places it probably shouldn't go, and I did my best to reign it in.

"Thanks, Abigail." I asked her no further questions and just returned to my work.


	11. Obedience

Some up there hates me. I know it.

After a long, confusing day, all I wanted to do was go to my birth, get in bed (bunk, whatever) and get some sleep. Maybe dream about the First Mate a little. But, no. At 0-something stupid in the morning, I get woken up to THIS:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Anyone capable of fighting needs to prepare for battle. The rest of you, find something to hold on to. I'll dispose of you later."

...and a series of klaxons. Which means very not-happy Doyle. Which is me.

"What the hell?"

"Dude, not a drill!" Tim shouted as he collapsed onto the floor. He shoved his feet into his ship suit. "Captain means it! I'd report to your battle station." And then he stopped and gave a sick smirk. "Heheh. Which means _you_ get to go on the bridge."

" _What?_ " I hissed. "You're kidding! I get enough during daylight!"

"Told you you'd be begging to be back!" he shouted over his shoulder as he launched himself across the hall.

For a long moment – extended a bit by my splitting headache from banging on the bed above me, added with lack of sleep and klaxons, not to mention the dark – I fumbled around for a ship suit, and groggily grouched up the ladder to Officer Country. Understandably, folks were running around everywhere in a state of nervous panic, but likely some of that terror came from the possibility of the Captain finding them not making themselves useful. Something about 'extra cargo' floated across my mind, but I batted it away with a tired hand.

"Doyle reporting, sir," I stated simply, squinting my eyes against the bright lights that were everywhere, especially on the bridge.

The Captain was at the helm and Abigail nearby. She gave me the look that said, 'Are you mad?', but quite honestly, I couldn't argue in defense of my sanity at that moment. I didn't know where it was, or when it would arrive for duty. I usually didn't need it this late at night. Or early in the morning. Whichever best applied.

"You know it's not even 0200 yet, right?" I said to her in response to her incredulous eyes.

At that, the Captain turned to me, a similar look of astonishment buried in his eyes.

I think the sound that emitted his throat was a kind of startled laugh. "Doyle, we'll deal with your insubordination later." He returned to the helm, Abigail hanging at his elbow, in case he needed her. "Report to the First Mate. And try to use the right honourary this time."

Well, if you want to wake up, nothing like a bucket of ice water. Or a comment like that. Better than a shot of espresso, really. I saluted a shaking hand. "Y-Aye aye, Captain," I said, and scampered out of the bridge before he changed his mind.

I was headed toward the First Mate's office and was thus surprised when she bowled out of her quarters, her ship suit not quite zipped all the way up, and her jacket hanging off an arm.

"I'm gonna kill 'im, I really am," she was snarling, and looking toward the bridge. She looked ready to march in there and give the Captain what-for. "Not even two in the morning, what the hell is he thinking?" she growled. "Why wasn't I informed of this?"

I followed dutifully, and we were back on the bridge.

"With respect, Captain," she started, and the Captain turned back to us enough to see a wicked smile on his face before he returned his attention to space. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

"We're under attack, First Mate," he answered smoothly.

As if to support his argument, the ship was battered with fire. The ship shuddered under the barrage, but our shields deflected it readily enough. The First Mate grabbed hold of a nearby railing, and I fell in behind her, managing to catch a handful of metal as well before my face made friends with the floor.

"Return fire!" he ordered. The Captain was tossing his own blasters at the opponent vessel, a small ship that was shooting back. Our barrage was making quick work of their shields, and we definitely had them outgunned.

No wonder folks were so scared of the _Condor_. He was a menace.

"Focus fire on the cockpit!" he shouted over the noise – communications was shouting orders to the rest of the ship, and navigation was trying to keep the vessel in our sights.

" _You bastard!_ " I heard coming from the radio. If I didn't know any better (and, quite honestly, I didn't) I might have thought it sounded familiar.

"Die, scum!" the Captain roared back, blasting the bejeezus out of the vessel again. He let out a maniacal 'WAAHOOO!' and finally broke past their shield. The blasts hit the hull of the ship, and I saw fire break out.

The klaxons still sounded around us, the ship rattling in battle, but our shields just beat out their guns. They didn't touch us, but we were tearing them a new one – literally. I watched as the enemy ship gave a lurch, and their lights flickered out.

The Captain pulled a radio from the ceiling. "Skimmers, go!"

I could scarcely make out a series of skimmers rallying down the launching pad of the _Condor_ – skimmers that I realized had been manned and ready, waiting for the order.

"Hehe..." the Captain was jubilant as he turned back to the First Mate. "Victory!" he reported, giving her a little salute.

She was still not pleased. "At two in the morning?" she growled.

"Element of surprise," he answered back. Her grouchiness didn't deter his satisfaction.

The crew of the bridge had scattered, hurrying away from the bridge – most of them diverting to the right, and I could hear them clambering down the ladder that led to Level 2.

The Captain released himself from the helm, looking damned proud of himself. "Oh, and... what were we saying about the new crew?" he asked, leaning back on the comfy pilot chair.

The First Mate gave him a dark look. Abigail and I shared a worried glance.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said, a dark accusation in her voice.

She then left the helm, without addressing him. He glared after her but didn't say anything. Instead, he turned on me.

He clasped his hands as he smiled with a dark, toothy smile. They glinted with menace. "Doyle. About earlier..."

I bowed my head low. "Yes, Captain. I apologize. I... wasn't thinking."

I could barely see him nod in acknowledgment from my position. "Indeed you weren't. Now, this is your first battle, and it is a rather ungodly hour, so I'll let you slide this time. But. You _really_ need to work on your conditioning." He cocked his head at me, and I looked up, a little surprised at the motion. "You don't have any military training, do you?"

I blinked. I think the hair on the back of my neck bristled. "Sir?"

I shut my eyes with a silent curse.

"That would be a no. Abigail?"

I looked up to see her fetch something for the Captain. I was a bit horrified to realize it resembled some kind of club. He stood and took it, and pat it against one hand. He leaned against a railing and looked into my eyes. Those ghastly, blood-red eyes, glowing with the thrill of the hunt. And now they were fixed on me.

"In the military, Doyle..." he said, and I found myself wishing desperately that I'd thought to follow the First Mate. It would have been much safer. She'd likely have growled about the Captain a bit and sent me to bed, maybe. But instead... I had to endure his wrath. "It's very common that we officers would _beat_ lesser crew members until they learned the error of their ways. In fact, on some ships, there's a singular crew member where his entire job is just to dole out _beatings_ when the need is called for." I couldn't look into his eyes. I instead found my attention drawn to those slender green fingers, tipped in dark nails, one hand clasped around the handle lovingly, and the other caressing the worn leather. It was dark brown and looked well-used. I gulped as I wondered how many people had suffered under its touch.

"It has a long and well-respected history, that _beatings_ were good for morale," he said, and he leaned even more against the rail, his spine curving back farther than was humanly possible – but I reminded myself, he wasn't human. He was a Kaeguri. Their flexibility was one of their… selling points. I shivered at the thought.

The Captain held up the weapon in the light as if studying it. "I myself was trained under a similar regime. That brute force and capital punishment make the recipient more..." He gave a slight flick of his wrist, and the club gave a loud 'SMACK!' against his palm. Far louder than I would have anticipated. He let out a soft growl, his grip tightening around it.

" _Obedient_." There was a dark hunger in his voice, and I found my eyes meeting his, yellow and narrowed, and dangerously calm.

And then he stood straight, crossed the step and a half of distance between us, and his arm moved in a fast arch toward me.

I shut my eyes, wincing, bracing for impact. But the leather merely tapped me on the shoulder, and the Captain held it there.

For a moment, I didn't believe it had happened. But I looked up at him, and that darkness was still in his eyes.

"But you are not in the military, Doyle," he said softly, his mouth a grim line. "You signed no paperwork, went through no preliminary tests, and did not volunteer for that kind of forceful training."

He removed the club and began to move around me. My eyes followed him, entranced.

"You are not like most of the crew, Doyle," he said, raising his voice a little louder. "You are here by virtue of your experience, as limited as it is." His concession included a small smirk. "You've overheard an important piece of information, and rather than disregarding it as a morbid fairy tale, you took interest in it. However little. And you took the story. Made something more of it. Took it and did something with it."

He was in front of the helm, now, and he paused here, looking to me. Those eyes were searching my soul like they had the first night I stood before him, the First Mate standing excitedly beside me.

He held out the club like it was merely a baton, an instrument with which to make his point. "You are a bird watcher, and by virtue of that, you have a higher priority of staying here."

_Birdwatcher,_ Scott had said. _It means they liked your story._

I watched the Captain curiously as he began another trek around me.

"Not only do the First Mate and I hold you in a kind of debt – since you're the only reliable lead we've had for quite some time – you've also proven yourself a very useful addition to our ship. The First Mate is taken by your personality and feels you will be a great asset in shipboard life. Personally, I hold Montgomery's impression of you a bit more reliable – the First Mate does have a habit of liking unlikeable characters." Here he smiled darkly, and I imagine he was including himself in this number. "You have good work ethic, so I don't see any point in beating you. It quite honestly would do no good."

He returned to the helm once more and gripped the club in his hands. "Beatings are for beasts, Doyle. You are not a beast. You are an upstanding, ambitious young man who has quite a promising life ahead of him. You've managed to acclimate yourself to this new environment rather well, with the slight drawback of your honoraries. But." He held up a finger, here, moving the club from his right to his left to make his point. "These honoraries are in place for a reason. It is a sign of respect, and a way to keep people in line. Because, unfortunately, most of these people are beasts."

His eyes flickered to the hatch, and for a moment I got the image of a spooked animal, startled by an imagined noise. His eyes stared afar as if seeking what had caught his attention, but he didn't move. He just blinked. And eventually drew his eyes back to me.

He rested his hands on the club again. "The First Mate doesn't quite understand this either, because, to her, it is a mere formality. But I must insist you refer to me as 'Captain' at all times. You never know who is watching, or listening, and it's important that things are kept in balance. The last thing we need is a mutiny of some sort." His lips curled into a smile. "This is my very favorite ship. If I lost her, I'd go rather mad, and it's important to everyone involved that that doesn't happen. Alright?"

I nodded quickly. The Captain nodded his head.

"Thank you. Abigail?"

She took the club from him – I think with a soft smile – and returned it to wherever it was it belonged.


	12. Masquerade

As it turned out, it was going to be a looong night.

The skimmers had 'salvaged the ship', a strange floater of some kind keeping the battered cruiser aloft. It was tied to the _Condor_ and dragged along behind us. The whole situation took a while – during which the Captain set myself and Abigail to watch the bridge, despite me having no idea what all entailed the 'trouble' I was looking out for – but eventually, some of the crew and cargo from the smaller ship was aboard the _Condor_. The proper navigation and communications personnel returned to their shift, and the Captain sent Abigail and myself to the galley to help the First Mate with 'booking'. When we arrived, it was suitably crammed with the captured crew.

The galley doors were both locked, and the only way in and out was via the kitchen. When Abigail and I arrived, Rhea and another engineer – a tallish, bald fellow who was thick in the arms, torso, and neck – were guarding the swinging doors that led to the galley proper. Cookie was not in the kitchen – something that unsettled me – but Tim was busying himself making sandwiches.

The engineers saluted us. Tim spared a quick salute but kept working. The First Mate turned to us with a sniff of disdain.

"Finally sent you two down here, did he? About time." She was looking out of the serving window through which we took care of breakfast, and I stood at her right side. Abigail took her left.

"How many do we need, Mistress?" Abigail asked quietly.

"Technically, we don't," she answered impatiently. "But for full force, only three. Assuming we haven't lost anyone." The two of them peered at the crew with discerning eyes. I looked at them as well, but I had no idea what I was looking for.

To be fair, most of them looked tired and scared. The fact that they'd been 'ushered' into a single room, where most of the doors were locked, and the others were guarded by buff looking, armed persons likely wasn't very reassuring. Most were huddled in frightened groups, sitting at their tables and waiting for what was doomed to come to them. But there were a few who were shouting back.

"Let us out of here!"

"You can't keep us here!"

"What do you want?"

"I want whoever's in charge!"

In the back, I spotted a boy my age. He had blood on his temple – not much, but some – and was hunched over the table, his head resting in his crossed arms. His green eyes watched the rambling ones, but he stayed in his own space.

Behind us, Roger – cargo – slipped in.

He quickly put up a salute. "The ship is secured, Mistress," he reported. "Pilot says she'll need some repairs, but she ought to fly. Cargo is secured."

"Very well, Roger," the First Mate replied dryly. "Dismissed."

He saluted again and slipped out.

The First Mate sighed as she leaned against a table. She looked back at Tim, whose work had shifted into the sounds of rattling packages. "You about done?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said, tossing the wrappings of the cheeses aside, a mountain of sandwiches before them. "Ready for serving."

She rolled her eyes and nodded toward the window. He obediently retrieved the tray of sandwiches and approached the window.

The rabble-rousers in the galley went quiet as Rhea and the other engineer entered the room, their weapons aimed toward the crowd. Tim slid the large tray into the window.

"Alright, line up – one by one," Rhea ordered. "Don't start any trouble, or everyone's going hungry. You hear me?"

The trouble-makers held their tongue. The crew got up and moved into lines, and each took their sandwich. A lot of them took it back to their seats and nibbled, but a few just clutched the food out of obligation. A pair of the shouters kept their place and didn't take the offering.

Before long, the tray was empty, holding only crumbs. I wasn't sure who'd taken more than their one sandwich, but no one said anything about it. Tim took the tray back, and Rhea and the other engineer backed into the kitchen once more.

"Abigail," the First Mate ordered. "Go check on Alice. I need to know what our status is with the crew."

"Aye, Mistress," she answered, and bowed low before scuttling out the left door. I shuffled my face as I looked in on the crew of people. Wondering exactly how well 'captives' described them. What of their ship? Their cargo? What did the First Mate and Captain plan on doing with them?

I stepped closer to the First Mate. "Er... Mistress?"

"Yes, Doyle?" Her drawl was impatient, and her eyes were tired. I dare say red.

"What... exactly is going on? Mistress," I added, looking over at Rhea.

The First Mate sighed. "This is the Captain's business," she told me. But her eye also glanced at the engineers. "We do what he tells us to."

' _These honoraries are in place for a reason. It is a sign of respect, and a way to keep people in line.'_ The Captain had called it 'a mere formality'. But I suppose in a situation like this it made sense. I simply nodded. "Yes, Mistress." So it was a game. A way to combat mutiny.

Fair enough.

Abigail returned then, saluting us.

"Mistress. Your report." She held out a paper, and the First Mate took it, scanning the list of names, most of which had checkmarks, or notes beside them.

"Damn," she muttered. She looked out to the crew. "We're going to need more than three."

Abigail looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue. The First Mate handed me the form.

"Doyle, hold on to this for me."

"Aye, Mistress." I took it and held it. But I couldn't help look.

It was a list of names. I assume they were in the order of rank because the first name on the list was 'Montgomery'. Each had a letter beside them, the column labeled 'O', likely for their 'office': 'E' for engineering, 'S' for science, 'C' for cargo, and so on. On the right side of the page was a column labeled 'status'. Most of them had mere checkmarks, but those with notes drew my attention. 'Montgomery' had the note 'com'. Melody, a navigator, was 'dec'. I gulped, as I recognized a shortening of the fancy word for 'dead'. Julie, engineering – 'dec'. Janice and (my throat went dry) Joey, 'X's – those were 'extras' – both 'dec.'

I gave a shuddering breath. Marilyn, science, had a check by her name. Rufus was not so lucky.

Also... Jasper, SM, 'dec.'

I blinked. The Second Mate? What, he'd gone out into battle? I didn't really believe that... But, that's what it said. Jasper, SM, dec. Clear as day. I frowned at it, not sure what to make of it, but looked at the other comment 'com.'

Montgomery, Lulu (T? Only thing I could figure was 'talk' – communications?), Edmond (science), Joel (cargo), and Margaret (the last 'extra') were labeled 'com.' I wasn't sure what it meant...

But then, there was 'Scott (N)' with 'SB'. And a checkmark.

I frowned. Did... check mark mean on the ship? Maybe 'SB' was... sickbay? That kinda made sense. Lisa, communications, was also labeled check, 'SB'. Maybe 'com.' meant they were on the other ship?

At the very end of the list were six numbers – two lines, three columns, but they weren't labeled. The top line read '6, 2, 12'. The second, '4, 5, 7'. I had an idea. I looked up and counted... a dozen people in the galley.

And I didn't say a word.

The First Mate beside me sighed. "Sixteen is too many..." She was glaring out at the party before her, and her eyes were judging each person. Suddenly a light clipped on in her head. And she cursed.

"Oh, I'm gonna kill him," she growled under her breath. I think I saw Abigail smile.

"Michael," she said to the engineer. I glanced at the list. But neither he nor Rhea were listed. Hell, neither was Abigail. Or myself. Or the First Mate or Captain... But I looked up to see the First Mate stepping into the galley. I scuttled along behind her.

The mask was instantaneous. I immediately recognized the witch that had interrogated me on my first night here. She was so different from the First Mate who'd been stealing the Captain's sand cakes that afternoon, almost like an evil twin. I was disturbed and kept my silence.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." And she made a show of looking to the clock on the wall. "Sorry. _Morning_." Her smile was subtle and ingenuine – she must be taking lessons from the Captain.

And I gagged a little as the thought flickered across my mind of what else she was taking from the Captain.

But the First Mate stepped forward, her dark hair swaying with her motions, the sapphire leather clutching her arms, and the ship suit dancing around her. "Pardon for the interruption, but we're taking your ship." She set a fist on one glorious hip. "Who here has work experience?"

One of the rabble-rousers moved forward to cause trouble, but both guns focused on him.

"Yes?" the First Mate asked, as if his threatening movement was akin to raising a hand.

The man didn't answer but looked back to his comrades. They didn't even have to shake their heads to tell him that was a bad idea. He retreated into the crowd.

The First Mate smiled at them, a shark before minnows.

Behind her, I fought back a sigh. It was going to be a looong night.

xxx

Someone had brought over a ledger from the ship, and the First Mate proceeded to "interviews" – one by one, Michael-the-engineer and I ushered each potential crew member to her office. I confess, I'd been curious if he could carry his gun pointed at your back as he climbed up the ladder as Rhea had, but I quickly learned that there were many ways in which they varied – for one, we took the lift instead.

We had coffee, though. And at 0500, the galley was starting coming to life – even with Cookie absent, Tim knew his way around the kitchen and started prep for breakfast. By 0630, he was ready for food.

I was between 'guests' when Tim called me aside.

"Doyle!"

I turned. He saluted me with a smirk.

"Sir. Please tell the First Mate that I'm... ready for breakfast?" The end of the phrase took on the lilt of a question. I knew he was toying with me, but also putting in place just enough formality that he would keep himself out of trouble.

I played coy. "At my earliest convenience, Timothy." I winked, and he chuckled.

"Aye aye, sir," he responded, gesturing a spatula to his brow, but miraculously avoiding burning himself or spilling food – an achievement I silently applauded him for.

As we walked to the lift, I walked alongside the next 'guest', a man named Judas, though he'd requested 'Jude'. I'd not answered him – at first I didn't answer the various questions they had decided to fling at me because I was tired, new at this, and not sure what I was to say; now, I stayed silent to maintain the illusion of structure and intimidation that was, I realized, a tradition on the _Condor_ , and not one I was going to challenge. I wondered idly if perhaps it was wrong of me to scare the poor souls, putting on the mask provided to me and playing in the masquerade. I wondered if I might should instead make a fuss, and cry out for justice against a cruel Captain. But I was beginning to see Mary's point of view on these things. While the Captain was not one to trifle with, he seemed fair enough (from what I'd seen... although the thought of the unfortunate ones he _did_ consider beasts being beaten for morale disturbed me in the abstract) and, it was also true, there were worse ways to live. Having no bed, for one; there was work here, and Cookie and Tim made fine food.

And my thoughts trailed to the Captain's mysterious guest. The man didn't even know me and seemed paranoid. And violent. I clutched my hands to my side. Our Captain was intimidating, sure, but I hadn't... _seen_ him lay a hand on anyone yet. Suspected, but... not seen. And with the way he played tricks, it was likely he just wanted me to _think_ he'd hurt me if I got out of line.

Although... the Second Mate.

Now, that _was_ curious. From what little I'd seen of him, he seemed lazy, kept in his quarters or office like a pig for slaughter. So I did wonder how directly _that_ metaphor followed.

I glanced sideways at Jude-Judas. He, too, was pretending to be tough, but the way his eyes darted about told me he was just about as scared as I had been on my first night-morning aboard the _Condor_.

Hard to imagine it was only days. It seemed so far away, now. My mother and her little pub, constantly fussing at me to clean the tables, wash the dishes, get a job, and stop harassing the customers. The regulars and barflies, their mad stories, the adoration of a drunken audience. Even my batshit crazy grandmother visiting me for Chryssam, or the boys on the dock, who demanded a toll for your presence in town via a prank, dare, or favor. Much more so when you were the son of a barmaid.

Where was it I learned to lie so well? I wondered. My mom? Her customers? The urchins on the docks? Maybe from all of the years of dodging atrocious sweaters in favor of a decent pair of slacks.

Regardless of where I learned it, there's no way I could have anticipated how useful it would be to be a damned good liar later in life. Odd how the little sins they try to teach you not to do are the ones you need. Perhaps it's not so much that they're teaching you to not sin, as it is they're teaching you to be careful which sins you commit, and that you do your best to not get caught at them.

"Mikey," it turned out, was a big softie. Over the morning, we'd chatted quite a bit, and I learned that he'd been an engineer on the same ship as Scott and that he considered 'joining up with the _Condor_ ' one of the best things that had ever happened to him. I'd spent a couple of interviews listening to him speak with adoration of the ship.

"Ancient, but beautiful technology," he said. "They really don't make ships like this anymore..."

Now, however, he was nothing but rock – a mercenary for pirates. He followed behind us like a silent sentinel, an emotionless construct in comparison to Rhea's brutish pushing and jeering. I'll be honest, it was much easier to work with.

When we reached the lift, the three of us stepped inside – Michael faced us, his gun at attention, and pushed the button to Level 1 without looking. It was a routine we picked up rather quickly, and it had slowly grown into a game as to how bad we could scare the 'prisoners' in what little time we had with them. I knew there wasn't much I could do to reassure them, and I confess, it was a little fun.

When the lift announced our arrival, the muscle backed out and stood at attention outside the lift. That way he could relish the worried faces as they looked from him to down the long, empty hallways of Officer Country, and marched to their doom. I'd lead the 'victim' to the First Mate's office, where the resident witch would welcome them in with perfumed arms, entangling them in her enchantments until she'd sucked all of the information out of them that she needed, or wanted. We'd kick around a bit outside until she jiggled the door – we'd straighten quickly and be waiting for them when the hatch opened. We'd march the ashen-faced sap downstairs and pick up the next one.

As was beginning to be my habit, I looked down the long central hallway to the bridge. To add to the unease of Cookie being missing from his post, there was also no one at the helm. The navigator was sipping coffee, speaking quietly with communications, so it wasn't like there was no one on watch, but... It disturbed me. As creepy and frightening as the Captain was, it seemed a bit wrong to not see him in the bridge – at the helm, or at least in the doorway, talking to the First Mate. His absence nagged at me, and I worried as to where he was...

It bothered me all the way to the First Mate's office, but then the game was back on, and we played our parts.

I knocked on the First Mate's door.

"Who is it?" came her usual, impatient reply. She couldn't always be busy doing something... or could she? To be honest, I still wasn't sure.

"Doyle, Mistress. The cook wishes to inform you that breakfast is ready for serving – I need only your order." I glanced at our 'guest', and I spotted Michael failing at fighting back a grin behind me at the delay. "Also, I have another interview for you."

The First Mate heaved a heavy sigh that we could hear out here. "Very well. Bring them in."

I punched in the numbers – I was getting quite quick, and perhaps they thought we'd been doing this for years, even though it was my first show – and the hatch opened.

The First Mate looked up at us from under her furrowed brow. She waved him in. "Sit," she ordered, gesturing to the seat. Jude-Judas took the seat opposite her desk, and kept his head down, though his eyes traced the shelves before lingering on the foreign map behind her.

With a growl of a sigh, the First Mate scribbled something on a piece of paper before her. She grabbed another, then looked up at me.

"Feed the rest and send them to Roger." She turned back to her paperwork – pulling out a fresh piece of paper, I noticed – and spoke without looking at us. "And bring me the last two. By the time this bullshit is done with, I expect you back with breakfast."

I nodded low. "Aye, Mistress."

Jude-Judas looked back at me with pleading eyes. I kept my face blank as I closed the hatch behind me.

"So… Judas, is it?" I heard her say behind us, her voice muffled from the hatch as we hurried to the ladder.

"Thank the gods. That stuff's been driving me _nuts_ ," Mikey groaned.

"I know, right?" I chuckled. "Cookie may be gone, but Tim definitely knows what he's doing."

Mikey grunted. "Man, the commandeering crew are having a hell of a morning too, I bet."

We were on Level 2, then. "Commandeering crew?"

"Yeah – they're on the other ship," he said, gesturing a thumb in no particular direction. "Cookie's a pilot, right? So, he'll be the one in charge of the ship while they get it fixed up. One of each of the specialties to make sure she'll fly. We'll run a little short-handed until she's good, and then we sell her." He smirked. "Mind, there's always a rearranging of management, but what would you expect?"

Well, that answered one mystery. "How many crew is that going to cost us?"

"Who knows?" he answered honestly. His eyes took on a dark shade. "Already cost us four or five. But even numbers can't replace a person."

I thought of Joey, who just the other morning was shooting dice and mocking cards. He must have seen my frown, because he stopped at the door, and nudged me gently.

"Hey," he said quietly, a sad smile on his face. "Shit happens. Part of the job, y'know?"

"A job none of us picked," I pointed out.

He chuckled. "You'd be surprised how wrong you are about that."

But neither of us could really stand the smell. We pushed into the room, and Tim turned to us expectantly.

"Sir?" he said, that cocky smirk still on his lips.

"First Mate says feed 'em and send them to Roger." I looked at Michael. "Cargo, right?"

Michael nodded. "Cargo bay. That's the typical course of action."

I looked back at Tim. "And when they're fed, open the galley for the crew. But we're going to grab the last two first."

"Aye aye, sir!" Tim replied with a grin. He grabbed a whisk and an empty sauce pot and made a clanging noise. Rhea snarled at him.

"Step right up, step right up!" he shouted to the captured crew at large. "Come on, get your breakfast! One at a time, now." He looked to Rhea. "Rhea. Be a dear and fetch the cargoman, eh?"

She glowered at him and then glared at the captives. But they were just itching for that delicious aroma that had been torturing them for the last long while. They got in line, one by one, and Rhea slipped out for cargo.

I stepped into the galley. "Is there a Roger here?" I called. "And... a Harry."

Reluctantly, the pair of them slipped out of the line and reported before me. After they'd realized that no one was getting killed, just asked questions, they'd stopped being so unreasonable. I ordered them to follow me, and Michael put on his facade – but I spotted him eyeing the batches of eggs that Tim was juggling on the stove with longing before following behind us.

As we led the way to the lift, I somehow felt uneasy. I wasn't sure what it was, but as we walked, I had the strangest feeling of paranoia. At the end of the hall, I turned to face our party and nodded into the lift.

"Get in," I ordered.

The pair of them eyed me in a way I couldn't quite place, but I think it was a kind of tired defiance. I looked at Mike, and he seemed to be sharing my sentiment. He covered them as they boarded the lift, and then stepped in. I followed behind him, keeping my eye on them both, and reaching for the button. Mike kept his finger on the trigger, and the lift went up.

We'd carried bigger 'guests' up that hadn't worried me. I suppose it was because they were scared and 'helpless', so they weren't a threat. But these guys...

They were solid. They had a mean roughness to them that I really didn't like. I tried to keep my eyes dead, but my gaze flickered back and forth between them. When the bell rang, I quickly exited the lift, and Mike backed out like usual.

And then, glancing down the hall, I saw him.

The Captain. Facing away from us, a new coat on his shoulders. It was black but garbed in scarlet laces. It was longer than his usual one, and a bit bigger, too. It matched his tail rather nicely.

At first, I was surprised, since he'd been absent all morning, but that moment of hesitation took my attention off my charges.

The pair of them were suddenly furious, and took a lunge at the Captain; Mikey caught them both and shoved them back – though not without gaining a couple of fists – and slammed them against the wall.

"Knock it off," he ordered, using a dark, deep, gravelly voice he'd demonstrated for me earlier. "The bridge down there's got nice, big ports. I'd have no problem introducing you to one."

He gestured with the weapon, and they moved down the hall, glaring at the Captain with murderous eyes.

I looked back to my Captain, and I think he took a spot of lint off his 'new' coat. Now that I observed, it wasn't so new – the black leather was a bit worn, but the trim looked like a fresh addition. In fact, I...

My breath caught in my throat. It looked just like... the one 'Jules' had been wearing.

He turned ever so slightly to me, that dangerous smile on his face.

"Having fun, Doyle?" he asked me, dark amusement in his voice.

_Where've you been?_ I wanted to ask him. _What was that all about?_ And _How did you get that coat?_

But instead, I just replied, "Fun enough... Captain." I was deliberate to use the right word.

The smile gave way to a grin. A toothy, crocodile grin. He winked at me again. "You're stepping up to your responsibilities well. Before long, we won't have need of Second Mates anymore..."

He turned to the bridge, then, the stranger's jacket on his back. I told myself I really didn't want to know, and that I should be taking care of the 'guests'...

I hurried around the corner, where Mike was keeping the pair of them from doing anything too stupid. I had the sparest thought that Rhea would be perfect for these guys but just slipped past them to the First Mate's door.

I rapped urgently.

"Who is it?" the First Mate called. I sensed some gratitude in there.

"Doyle, Mistress," I said. "I've got those last two." I eyed them. "But they've been up to mischief."

There was a rustling before she opened the hatch. Her face was that same mask of intimidation, but it was colored with a kind of fury that terrified me.

"What kind of mischief?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at them.

"They tried to attack the Captain, Mistress," I replied, trying to adopt the tone of amusement I'd sensed in the Captain.

She looked at me and blinked. And then she turned back to them. "Did they, now?"

She retreated back to her office, and I watched her going through her shelves. I looked to the pair of trouble makers – who were suddenly less sure of themselves – and then back to the First Mate, who approached with a blaster. It was nicely polished, and she held it in her hands like an old tool.

"We can't be having such dangerous sorts on our ship," she said quietly, and attached a silvery blue – a raw crystal! – into the end of it. I watched the charge infect the entire weapon, and then she turned it on them.

Their shouts were muted, as the crystal wrapped them in something that resembled a block of ice. She glared at the pair of them, and their eyes stared back at her in terror.

"Michael, take this... _ornament_ to the sickbay," she said. "I'll deal with it later."

Mikey saluted her, said his spiel, and then started shoving the sculpture away. Then the First Mate turned on me.

"You said they tried to attack the Captain?" she said, her eyes searching mine, the golden honey flooded with worry.

"They didn't even touch him, Mistress," I said quickly, "They just lunged at him. Mike caught them in time, and he was far enough away they couldn't have got him."

She let out a small 'heh'. "What was the Captain's reaction?"

I glanced toward the bridge. "I think he was... amused, Mistress."

Her eyes followed mine, and I think her face was having a war between a scowl and a smirk. "I'll bet he did..." She started that way, and then looked back.

"Uh, Doyle? Breakfast!"

She definitely grinned, then, winking at me, and jogged to the bridge. I sighed, following, but took the turn to the ladder instead.

Downstairs, the breakfast mess was going full swing. The 'rescued' crew were nearly through, and were being ferried out to the cargo bay downstairs – there was a huge lift right there that I supposed was to move rides and cargo from level 2 to level 3, so the collection of persons were being treated accordingly.

I don't know how I felt about people being treated like cargo. I mean... we fed them. Scared them, sure, but no one was getting hurt. Except for those trouble makers, and they'd tried to attack the captain. For such bloodthirsty pirates as we were, I had a feeling a lot of it was hype.

Or a well-played hand by the Captain. I thought of the jacket and shuddered. How had he gotten that jacket? Gotten it and tailored it, even. It unnerved me.

When Tim saw me, I think he fought back a grin. "Back so soon, sir?" he asked. He looked behind me but found I was alone. "You want the First Mate's breakfast, sir?"

"If you could, Timothy," I answered.

He nodded and started a batch of eggs. "Aye aye, sir," he added a bit later, as he was pouring some cheesed, scrambled eggs into a bowl. I watched as he dressed the breakfast, and covered the dish.

"Did... you make one for the Captain yet?" I asked.

Tim nodded, holding the dish out to me. "Yes, sir. And I was informed there is no acting Second Mate at present, so that's only you and the Mistress left to feed." And then he made a show of snapping his fingers. "Damnit, knew I was forgettin' something. Did you wanna eat, sir?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, that'd be awful nice, Tim," I said. He was really pushing his luck, but since there was no one in the kitchen but us, and I think I really needed the pick-me-up, I let him slide with it.

It was just a formality, after all.

The smile was still on my face when the lift announced my arrival to level 1. I stepped out but was almost immediately pounced upon by Mikey.

"Hey!" he greeted. "Sir," he added. He eyed the dishes in my hand. "Breakfast is going strong?"

"Strong as ever," I answered. "Even without Cookie, Tim whips up some mean eggs. Scrambled this morning, all the fixin's."

" _Excellent_." He debated for a moment, looking from the lift to the hallway.

"I'm done, if you want the lift," I suggested, moving out of his way.

He nodded. "Thank you, sir. You, uh, have a good day, sir!" He slipped into the lift and punched the button quickly, looking expectantly at the doors as they slid shut.

I shook my head in amusement and looked down the hall.

As I'd suspected, the First Mate was on the bridge. The Captain was not at the helm but seated at one of the work tables that was hiding in the floor. The First Mate was beside him, holding a mug of coffee as they chatted.

"...I think only one or two of them will be any good," she was saying. "And of those, only one of them that I'd like to keep on hand. The rest are, as far as I can tell, just passengers. None of them have any experience on a vessel, but there might be some who could make a living here."

"How many?" the Captain asked, before punctuating his question with another forkful of breakfast. His eggs were mostly whites, and a lot of greens mixed in.

She shrugged. "Five, at most? Mind, as I said, they're passengers. Folks who have places to get to. Though there is a youth or two that we might ask..."

The pair of them looked up at me as I placed the dishes on the small table. The First Mate made sounds of appreciation as she took the dish I handed to her, and the Captain observed me with interest. I noted he was wearing his usual jacket once more.

"Good morning, Mr. Doyle," he greeted, that sly grin on his face. "How was your evening?"

I wasn't sure if there was some sort of test there, but I answered honestly. "It was certainly interesting." I caught myself before I added the proper, "Captain."

His face lit up in a grin. "Ah, the boy learns..."

The First Mate gave him a sly look. "Are you beating obedience into my crew again, Captain?"

He gave her the most incredulous expression of innocence. "My ship, _my_ crew." And then he gestured at me. "'Sides, Doyle doesn't need beatings. He just needs a... firm hand." His grin was toothy and decidedly shark-like. I was reminded of the successful impression the First Mate had done of that same expression hours before.

As it was, I didn't particularly care for how nonchalant they were discussing corporeal punishment. "Did you want a fresh mug of coffee, Mistress?" I offered.

"Oh, please." She smiled, handing me the mug, and I retreated to her office.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I thought of the game. How far did it go? Did the Captain really beat people? What if he did? Was the First Mate playing along, or...?

My head was starting to hurt from all this thinking. I could spin it around and around, and I would do nothing but get confused.

So confused, I mis-keyed the lock on the First Mate's office. With a huff, I tried again.

To no avail.

And then I blinked and looked around.

I was... in the middle hallway. Facing the Second Mate's birth.

I blanched. Former Second Mate. I felt a chill go down my spine as I thought once more of the listing on the ledger – Jasper, SM, dec. – and then of the Captain's remark: _Before long, we won't have need of Second Mates anymore._

And then, Scott: _I think being Second Mate is the_ second _most dangerous job on this ship_.

I swallowed a fearful lump in my throat and did my best to quickly hurry down the hall and find the First Mate's office.

Whatever game they were playing... I wasn't quite sure I liked it.


	13. Communion

I decided to take my breakfast with Abigail in the workroom. She glanced at me as I entered, but didn't greet me. I relished in the quiet, and sat and ate my meal as the thoughts continued to buzz around in my skull. Ultimately, I decided that there wasn't much to be done about it. For better or worse, I was on this ship. On the plus side, the Captain and First Mate both approved of me, and I imagine they even trusted me to some extent. I wasn't entirely sure why – I was only doing what any decent person would do. They hadn't seen some of the mischief I had allowed myself to get into back at home.

I thought of the urchins. Their jeering faces, bad teeth, and over-worn clothes. They were kings of the docks when I was a kid. As I grew older, I realised they were just punk kids, and as they grew older, they ended up in jail or signed aboard a ship to never be seen again. Their successors kept up a long tradition of heckling those that weren't in their 'club' and weaseling favours and actions from the privileged few.

I was quick on my feet, that was for sure. It came from years of dodging patrons and chairs as waitstaff at my mother's pub. And I could spin a good tale. I amused them enough to be an almost favorite. I confess, once upon a time, I'd wanted to be one of them, but the warm bed and full tummy my mother provided kept me home.

How much more different was the _Condor_ , I wondered? Were they not also meager urchins, eking out a living under false pretenses? Simply taking advantage of their bad reputation to overcome the smaller prey in a fashion that would shame someone with dignity. Folding into their herd those that proved useful...

...People like me.

People who generally kept out of trouble. Spotted a story worth telling, and carried on the thread. People who had a habit of mistruths, and a gift for juggling.

My thoughts were interrupted by the fruitless wanderings of my fork. I realised my plate was done, and brought myself back to life.

Abigail was still sitting in her spot, doing her best to work on the project at hand. Her brow was furrowed, and her buttermilk tresses floated around her as she fought a minuscule battle with the Murbian designs. My eyes traced her figure, thin and sleight, draped in that black cloth. For someone who was a lab rat at best, or at worst the stooge of a pirate captain, she kept herself surprisingly clean.

Black was tricksy like that.

Her hands were clean. Her face was clean, though a little tired. In fact, I had the strangest suspicion she was better rested than I. I felt a twinge of jealousy that she would have been informed of the battle when I wasn't... But then, the First Mate hadn't been informed, either.

I felt a bit tricked. In a way, I was on the outside of the loop once more. I didn't quite like it.

"Abigail..."

The fact that I actually spoke up surprised her. Her eyes darted around quickly, before she found me, sitting in the corner I had been, and cocked her head to the side.

"Yeah, what is it?" she asked.

"Do you..." How do I phrase this? "Did you know about the raid last night?"

She smiled dangerously. "You mean, this morning?"

My eyes narrowed, but I confess I was too tired to be angry. The musings had worried me a bit, too. "Sure, this morning. It's just, you look a hell of a lot better rested than I am."

She giggled. "I am, a bit." She gave me a conspiratorial wink. "Captain doesn't actually say, but I can usually tell when he's up to something." She shrugged. "So I try to sleep around his shifts when possible."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. "How can you tell?" I glanced abstractly in the direction of the bridge. "It seems to me like he's always up to something."

She nodded. "Yeah, he usually is." She gave a devilish grin. "But raids are something he usually doesn't tell the First Mate about. So when he's plotting by himself, that's what it is."

She gave me another wink. I shuffled my mouth, deciding that the connotation between winks and the Captain's secrets were unnerving me.

"Why doesn't he tell her?"

As soon as it was out my mouth, I knew it was one of those things that I likely shouldn't have asked.

Abigail ceased her work, looking down at the tools.

It was a long moment as she sorted out what she wanted to express before she spoke. "Do you remember... What I said about the Captain not wanting to hurt anyone?"

Her voice was quiet, and I almost didn't hear her. But I did.

I nodded. "Yeah."

She looked up at me, and I could see the sorrow and determination in her eyes. "He doesn't want anyone hurting anyone." Her voice was hard, but still so soft I could barely make out the words. At the same time, they pierced my soul. "The people we go after – the people we pirate." She shook her head. "They're bad people. Some are worse than others." She looked down, picking up her tool and putting it into place, but she didn't turn it. "Only the Captain really knows how bad. That's what those private guests are all about. If anyone knew the kinds of demons he entertained..."

She shut her eyes. And I observed her, then. Wondering what it was she knew that the First Mate didn't. What this girl, so young and fragile, yet so strong, and aged beyond her years, had seen and learned.

I wondered why she was here. And how she came to be in such a position, came to be the Captain's right hand.

The one who knew what he was up to without him needing to say.

Her eyes opened, and her face took on a devilish grin. "Well. Let's just say they wouldn't get out alive." She turned the wrench, then. "But it's best to entertain them, and learn what we can from them, as friends." She grabbed the next piece and attached it. "You attract flies better with honey, after all."

And then she left it at that.

xxxx

We worked the rest of the day in silence. I focused on my craft instead of the goings-on of the ship around me and was interrupted by the lunch bell.

"Lunchtime," Abigail announced. Her cheery excitement from the day before was absent, and I felt a little guilty that perhaps I'd burdened her with unpleasant thoughts.

At the door, we went our separate ways. She went to the bridge to tend to her Captain and I to the First Mate. When I knocked on the door, I was greeted with the usual, "Who is it?", but the tone was a bit different.

I stopped, a little puzzled. "It's... Doyle, Mistress," I answered. "Lunchtime."

I heard her whisper a curse, and then a dark chuckling along with her giggles.

"Alright, Doyle, go fetch it and bring it up. Tell Abby I have the Captain."

Dread dropped in my gut. I said nothing but forced my feet to move toward the ladder and bridge, and Abigail met me at the corner.

There was a smirk tugging on her lips. "Is he...?"

"He's in the First Mate's office," I said quickly. I wondered if the horror showed on my face, but didn't ask.

We made our way downstairs, where lunch was wrapping up. Tim greeted us kindly.

"Afternoon, officers," he said with a salute. "Lunch for four?"

Abigail nodded. I immediately found it curious that she didn't consider Tim a superior, but Cookie she did... "If you please."

Lunch was a simple roast beef sandwich – the Captain took his with a dollop of what looked like sauerkraut and a hint of mustard – with a side salad, fruit, and yogurt for dessert. We loaded up our meals and headed to the lift, but I pushed the button with dread.

"Does he often disappear into the First Mate's office?" I asked. I wasn't going to force myself to voice my actual suspicions. Even though they were probably true, I just wasn't physically capable of voicing them.

She shrugged, a fond smile on her face. "Her office. His office. Well, helm. Considering we're working in his 'office'." She rolled her eyes in self-correction. "Quarters. Mind, if either of them is on duty, they're usually in an office."

I don't think I breathed. I heard the bell ding, but I couldn't make myself move. And yet, miraculously, I was at the First Mate's office door again.

Abigail was kind enough to knock.

"Who is it?" the First Mate called again. Now, I could peg the difference. It was amusement. Mischief. I tried to wrestle the lump in my throat down as my pride registered the sound to avoid future embarrassment. It would probably haunt my nightmares.

"Abigail, Mistress, and Doyle. I have the lunches."

"Come on in," she replied.

Abigail looked to me expectantly. I blinked at her.

"Something you _don't_ know?" I teased.

She stuck out her tongue at me, but I quickly punched in the number, smirking at her misfortune.

For a moment, I'd forgotten, but there was the Captain. Sitting at her desk, a clawed foot propped on the edge, his hat sitting crooked on his brow, and... a pipe of some kind lingering twixt his lips. I could just see his tail patting pleasantly beside him.

He had that same smarmy grin he'd had that first morning I'd learned his little secret. His eyes were on me, and me alone (or so I felt) as we entered, and deposited our wares on the desk. At least this time I didn't feel like prey.

"Lunch is served, Captain," I said to him. I turned to the First Mate, who was standing beside him, and nodded to her as well. "Mistress."

The Captain's eyes shifted to Abigail. "What's for lunch?"

"Roast beef sandwiches," she whispered temptingly, uncovering her master's dish and holding it out to him. "With a dollop of mustard, special for you."

"Ooh... Spoiled," he jeered, a crooked smile on his face.

"Yes, well," said the First Mate. "That's what happens when the best cook on the ship happens to also be the best pilot." She glanced at the Captain with cheek.

"Shame no one likes Murbian Cabbage," he replied readily.

She giggled, and he grinned.

I looked at Abigail, and she smiled pleasantly. She sat down, there, and proceeded to eat her own lunch. I looked to mine, wondering if I really wanted to eat here. With the Captain. I mean, Abigail and the First Mate, I didn't mind, so much. But the Captain...

I looked up at him, and he seemed to be enjoying his sandwich at a normal pace. You could almost forget he was half-Xoac. With a tail, and clawed feet. No, that was a lie - those teeth were damned distracting, but it was at least not quite as disturbing as the soup...

I swallowed a sigh as I sat down with my sandwich. Deciding it might cause questions if I went elsewhere. And where would I eat? Alone. Where my thoughts would torment me even more. Because, for better or worse, I was now a crewman aboard the _Condor_. I would have to work with the Captain, and the First Mate, and Abigail, secrets and all. The best I could do was keep my head down, my nose clean, and my arse out of trouble. Because this was my life, now. And there wasn't much to be done about it.


	14. Rumours

The next couple of days were strange, to put it kindly. What semblance of order had been established of wake up, greet the First Mate, get breakfast, eat breakfast, and then get to work with the Project (repeat with lunch and dinner) before bed, was jumbled up with the sudden absence of a Second Mate. Not that I had much noticed him being of much use when he was around, but there had apparently been a method to the madness.

The First Mate had a setup chart of time tables and shifts that kept everyone on the ship in a 'rotation' – the 24-hour workday was divided into four 'shifts' of six hours each, and for each department (navigations, engineering, science, etc.) there were three persons, of which one was to be 'on watch' at any given time. Those not 'on watch' could do as they liked, but during the day were generally expected to be at their posts, assisting, or sleeping in preparation for their upcoming shift. It was the zone between dinner and breakfast that was generally expected to be sleep or chillax time, though I found that the coffee urns worked well into the night.

The officers, it seemed, were no different. Of the three officers on the rotation, it was the Captain for the first watch, the First Mate for the second, and the Second Mate for third. As far as I understood it, this meant little more than making sure you were present and accounted for lest some catastrophe befalls the ship, so that should disaster strike, they knew who to wail at. But seeing as there was no longer a Second Mate, that left the two of them to juggle the watches amongst themselves. Despite it being yet another 'mere formality', this caused quite a bit of hair pulling on the First Mate's part (by which I mean figuratively – she was far more likely to curse and throw things than actually pull on her own hair, though on occasion she did that as well), but the Captain made it easy for her by offering to stand watch for as long as he could (which, it turns out, was a very long time) and let her know when he needed rest. When that time came, she would 'stand watch', he would sleep, and then return when he was ready to stand watch again. Which turned out to be only about four or five hours, depending on the time of meals.

This annoyed her since it didn't have an exact timetable, but considering how much of the rest of her life was surprisingly punctual, I wasn't quite sure why this particular instance bothered her. It's not like anyone ventured onto Officer's country except those of us that worked up here. It was truly a different world than the rest of the ship, and I imagine most crew would rather jump ship or work it out amongst themselves if something bad happened to the ship rather than report to the officers.

My 'schedule' accordingly became just as crazy as hers was, but since I wasn't an officer and did not have a 'duty shift', I found that my practical applications were demoted to that of an extra hand – a gopher, as it was. Much like the purple shirts, of which there were none at present, thanks to what was deemed 'battle casualties'.

At the particular moment, I had finished the punch list passed on to me by the First Mate for tasks around Officer Country, and was accordingly rewarded the rest of the evening to myself. Having spent a large portion of the day in the sickbay (where Scott would moan loudly to anyone who gave him an ear about pirates and shoddy marksmanship), I was eager to get out of Officer Country, and so found myself wandering down to Level 2.

It was quiet in the galley at the end of the dinner rush, but a number of people were still about. Mary, for one, but Alice was missing – I spotted Roger, the other cargo person, trying to drown himself in a cup of coffee in the corner. It'd been a while since I'd been down here to just hang out and felt almost like a stranger walking in the door after years away from the homeland. Mary spotted me quick enough and waved me over.

"Doyle!" she called.

Lisa, the gum-chewer, was there, as was Mikey, my new mate from engineering. Simon, the solitary navigator, looked like he was trying to muscle his way through soup so he could retire for a short while.

"Hey, guys," I greeted, giving Simon a sympathetic smile. He hardly responded – I had seen him slipping in and out of the bridge for the last couple of days, and every time looked a bit worse for the wear. But it was the communications girl that surprised me.

"Oh, right," she snarled, one hand still caressing the cast that held her left arm. "The First Mate's dog."

"Oi, now, that's not nice," Mikey chided her.

"Please. It's unnatural, way him and the girl run about the place. Always holed up in the Cap'n's workroom, doin' gods know what. Figure he's the one who saw the Second Mate last, ya reckon?"

I didn't like the way her eyes accused me. I looked to Simon, but he hid behind his bowl.

"Lisa..." Mary said quietly. "You'll scare the poor boy."

"Too right!" she answered. "He ought to be scared." She glared at me, daring me. "Sittin' up there, like it's nothing. They're a dangerous lot, I know. And come next port call, see how many of us are left. Then see what he has to say."

In the corner, I saw Roger eye us warily before stepping out of the galley.

"What happened... was regrettable..." Mary started, but she was quickly cut off.

"Oh, come off it! Just 'cos you think you're set, Miss Science. You just make sure our water's clean and our air's fresh. You don't have to see and hear the shit I do. And I tell you, it ain't natural!" She tossed a spoon, and stood roughly from the table, glaring down at me. For my part, I said nothing, but she collected her tray – her soup hardly touched, and half a sandwich still behind – and dumped the thing in the window for Tim. I spotted the ginger hair out of the corner of my eye take it into the kitchen, but I didn't turn to watch.

Simon stood, collecting his tray as well.

"Forgive me. But I'd rather not be part of this conversation."

His voice was quiet, tired. He, too, made his way to the counter, and set his tray there, taking a last spoonful before retrieving his sandwich and grabbing an extra one, and also slipped out of the galley.

I heard Tim moving around in the kitchen, but he kept to himself.

I turned to the two of them, frowning. I didn't remember ever having a conversation go like that during my admittedly short stay as a steward.

"Now what's all that about?"

The pair of them exchanged glances, and I glared at them.

"Come on, just tell me," I said. "I'll never know what the fuss is about if nobody explains."

Mikey sighed and spoke first. "It's just gossip." He shook his head. "There's always gossip about something or other. One never knows how much of it to trust."

One thing I'd learned over the years was that gossip tended to be far more trustworthy than anybody liked to admit. Even the outlandish stories had some seed of truth planted inside. If very deep inside.

"Like?" I asked. I had my grain of salt ready, but I had a feeling I wouldn't need it.

"Like..." Mary took the cue and held out her hands as if she could pull an example out of the air. "Like the Second Mate."

My jaw clenched. "What about him?"

"Well, the rumors say he's dead," she said simply. She shook her head. "Mind, it's likely nothing."

Mikey nodded quickly, a reassuring smile.

I looked between the two of them and wondered if perhaps they were lying to themselves. "But... the Second Mate _is_ dead."

Mary went pale, and even Mikey blinked at me.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said softly.

"Well... What about the one of the Captain shagging Alice?" Mary supplied, trying to lighten the mood.

I frowned. "Alice? In cargo?"

I saw her tug at her earlobe. "Just a rumor I've heard."

Mikey shook his head. "No one would shag the Captain. In fact, I bet it's why he's always in such a sour mood." The two of them giggled.

I thought of the Captain and First Mate, scampering about over sand cakes. I felt my lips twitch, but I didn't answer that one. "What else is there?"

Mary let out an exhale. "Golly. What are some of the juicy ones, Mike?"

"Ah... We're headed to Chaidan, last I heard. Meeting up with the _Lois_ sometime soon. No one knows why, but if it's true, we'll meet up with some old friends."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Depending on your definition of 'friends'."

I cocked my head to the side. "Where do you get these rumors, out of curiosity?"

Mike shrugged. "Mostly bridge crew. But, half the time they just mutter to themselves about the Captain, so you never know what's true or what's something they made up for amusing conversation at dinner." He grinned. "I mean, Alice and the Captain, come on. That's just ridiculous."

Mary shrugged. "I hear the First Mate, too."

Mikey's eyebrows shot up. "Both?"

"Both. One or the other."

I contemplated answering that one but didn't. "But what was Lisa on about port call? About 'see how many people are left'?"

"Well, not everyone... ah... _adjusts_ very well to life on the _Condor_." Mary gave a sad smile. "Lots of them jump ship. Clever ones at least collect their paycheck before they go ashore. Plus, battle losses."

Mikey nodded. "Battle losses usually account for a lot of it."

"And you'll get the occasional deserter. Someone who steals a ride and makes off in the middle of the night." Her eyes glittered with mischief. "Mind. I hear if you try that, the Captain shoots you out of the sky and sends someone to collect your bones..."

Mikey made a spooky sound and wiggled his fingers at me.

I blinked at him. "You guys are talking ghost stories." Ghost stories that sounded terribly plausible.

"That's really all it is, in the end," Mary said. "I mean, our only sources are bridge watch folk. Most of whom have boring jobs but are always under the eye of the Captain. It takes a toll. You have to find some way to amuse yourself – and generally, they do it by making up ghost stories with which to scare the rest of us. I mean, we never see the Captain, really. If it weren't for the occasional speaker message, and the sight of him from the port, you'd think he was just a specter that supposedly haunts Officer Country." She gave a laugh. "Most folks have never seen him."

"And, let's be honest – how much do you think the officers share with us lowly deckhands, eh?" Mikey smiled. "It's a kind of hazing, I think. Scaring the lower deck workers with terrifying tales of a bogeyman monster that just shoots people out of the sky for no reason. For the most part, if you just do your job and mind your own business, you can cruise from port to port without any worry, and get a nice check out of it, too. You earn your keep, and you can go home. Or, you can stay. Mind, oftentimes folks prefer to stay dirtside – not everyone can handle being crammed in a tin can but for so long. But those that do get really cushy positions. Folks like Alice. Montgomery. Even Tim." He thumbed to the galley, where the cook was still messing about. "Mind... he _is_ kitchen duty. He hardly leaves this level. He's probably the maddest of us all."

The two of them shared a chuckle, and I found myself disturbed.

With ghost stories like that... I'd jump ship, too. And yet... they didn't seem to believe any of it.

Was that seasoned skepticism... or denial?


	15. Suggestion

The conversation quickly left the abstracts of Officer Country, and on to more tangible things – like the inner workings of the ship. As was typical, you couldn't keep Mikey from talking about the ship like a lady with so many curves, who just needed the right kind of attention to make you the happiest man in the world.

"I tell you, that engine could run for weeks – hell, months! – just on what we got running in her now. And with how the science folks keep 'em shiny? Those crystals will last us forever. Hell, we hardly have to stop for fueling as is!"

I marveled with newfound speculation over how Mikey had nothing but good things to say about engineering. I tried to remind myself that the _Condor_ was named after a massive vulture, a scavenger that fed itself with the rotting flesh of dead things and was generally thought of as bad news, as far as birds go. The legends of the pirate ship were just as gory and unsettling, and yet he seemed to fancy this was a cruise liner of some kind.

Mikey? Denial. How that was even possible... My mind boggled.

"To be fair, it's tricky work," Mary confessed. "I mean, it's easy to cut yourself. Someone would end up in the sickbay every couple of days or so back when I first got on board. Took forever for someone to finally pluck up the nerve to ask for a medkit during an inspection." She grinned at me. "Saves us a ton of time and hassle. We order stuff in with supply requests when we do portside inventories and are always well stocked with bandages, wraps, pain meds – you know, whatever we might need." She gave me a wink. "Mind, means anyone with a scratch comes to us for a fix-up instead of braving Officer Country."

The pair of them laughed. I felt my mouth go dry. I thought again about the Captain's guest, and my hand went to my throat.

Neither of them noticed.

xxxx

The Captain was keeping things from the First Mate, and probably even outright lying – of that much, I was certain. But the crew as a whole was also keeping things from the officers.

That thing with the medkit? If someone working in my mother's pub had come up with an idea that would help the place run smoother – such as when Tish suggested adding an extra trash bin in the back corner, where a batch of regulars were notorious for not picking up after themselves; it encouraged them to be more responsible, but saved the time of dragging a bin around when they didn't – it was always brought up at a regular, morning meeting to the person in charge – my mother.

But...

It was obvious that the Captain kept to himself – if he wasn't at the helm actively flying the ship, he was resting in his quarters. Even back before the mysterious disappearance of the Second Mate, he was always found in the bridge. Abigail was at his beck and call should he need something done – and she jumped as high as she could – but who else really interacted with him that didn't need to?

The First Mate seemed to always be buried in the ship's business. She always had a stack of papers on her desk to work on and had her own, very specific way of doing things. I imagine a lot of what she did was unnecessary work (like cursing about the Captain and his arbitrary calls for 'watch shifts') but also got the impression that no one much talked to her, either. If Lisa's opinion of me meant much... they thought of me as her stooge, not unlike Abigail was for the Captain.

Before, that hadn't really bothered me, but after the conversation with Mikey and Mary, I was starting to worry about the reputation that the bridge crew was making for me. If I was to be thought of poorly, particularly because of yarn spinning, I would much rather the weaver of those tales be myself.

But what of the Second Mate? What was his part in all of this? Considering the position was presently vacant, it seemed a bit of a moot point. Plus, there was the fact that the Captain seemed to think it... superfluous. And considering his established fondness for following 'formalities' and humoring the First Mate's OCD tendencies for scheduling and control, that didn't bode well for anyone with the mind to take on that title at any point in the immediate future.

Not that the Second Mate had really done anything when he'd been around. From what I'd seen, he'd merely eaten food, slept in a bed, or lounged around in his office. I never saw anything go in and out of those hatches except him, or myself or Abigail with his meal. His tasks were a mystery, and I had a sneaking suspicion they always would be.

So, who was in charge?

These questions had been bothering me all night, and I didn't sleep very well. I waited until the right time to get up and went to the galley, where Tim was doing his breakfast thing. His greeting was merely a clipped nod and salute, and he gave me my breakfast and that of the First Mate without any ado. I made my way up to Officer Country, the thoughts still buzzing around in my mind, and knocked on the First Mate's door.

"Who is it?"

"Doyle, Mistress," I answered. I wondered if I sounded and looked as bad as I felt.

"Come on in."

I punched in the code and stepped into the office, our breakfasts in hand. She smiled at me.

"What's on for today?"

"Messy eggs benedict," I answered. Scrambled eggs (instead of poached) with diced ham slices and covered in a creamy Hollandaise sauce. Buttered toast on the side, and an orange half for each of us.

"Mm... Nice and warm start to the day," she noted, and picked out a forkful, blowing on it gently.

For once, I did not enjoy watching her eat. Instead, I looked to my own box, prying it open and staring at it. The warm vapors reached up to touch my face, but I just felt tired.

"Can I ask a... personal question?"

She paused, looking up to me. I think out of curiosity. She cocked her head to the side, her fork rearranging the eggs so they got the most of the sauce. "I suppose so. But I always have the right not to answer."

I contemplated how best to phrase it, but decided blunt was best. "Who exactly is in charge around here?"

Her first reaction was to blink. And then frown, leaning back into her chair. Her eyes narrowed at me like she was trying to figure out the subtext. "How do you mean?"

"Well..." I felt a hand go to my neck. "I mean, how does the hierarchy work? If someone down below needed something – like, say, an extra set of towels – who do they go to? Who keeps track of inventory? Who's responsible if things go missing?" I shrugged, knowing this last part was something that always got people angry if she wasn't mad already. "Who keeps track of the money? What's the Chain of Command?"

She definitely glared. "I'm in charge. You do what I say. And the Captain."

I floundered. I looked up at her and didn't care for the way she took hold of her fork. "I ask because... Well, I've picked up on some inconsistencies, and I'm not sure who to go to."

_There you go, Doyle! Lie your ass off!_ But in all honesty, it wasn't a lie.

Her eyes went from dangerous to suspicious. "What kind of inconsistencies?"

"Well..." I grasped around in my head for an example that didn't involve the Captain. "Well, it's like, last night – I was talking with some of the crew, down in the Galley." Her expression didn't change. "And something someone said got me wondering. Who do we go to when there's something that needs doing?"

"Such as?" Guarded, I think was the term. Defensive.

"Such as... Science. She was saying that in science, they cut themselves pretty regularly. And that they asked for a medkit so they could do their own first aid. But they had to wait until an inspection to mention it."

Her eyes rolled upward, and her face softened. "Right... I remember that."

"Well..." I caught hold of it. "I don't know how ships run, but in my mom's restaurant, we used to have a..." It felt lame even before it left my mouth. "Suggestions box."

Judging by the look on her face, she agreed. "Suggestions box?"

I shrugged. "Hey, it worked! Whenever a customer or worker had a good idea, they tossed it in the box. Eventually, it came in handy because we found out one of the waiters was harassing customers. Everyone had been rather hush-hush about it because they thought it was only them, but he was bothering a lot of people – they put a note of it in the suggestions box, since it was anonymous, and we had enough evidence to charge him."

Her eyes widened. "That really happened?"

I nodded gravely. "Yeah. Turns out a couple of the notes were from our wait staff. They sued him for sexual harassment."

She looked down at her bowl, and I could see the wheels turning. I felt a bit of relief, hoping that perhaps the evidence would present itself without anything more than an anonymous helpline. But there was still the question of the Captain.

"But what I'm wondering is... Who would read those suggestions?"

And then the First Mate got a deliciously nasty smile. One I wasn't sure I'd seen before, and I instantly didn't like it.

I think it was a Captain impersonation.

"Well, Doyle. Since you've got experience in these matters and are so worried about it... _You_ can do it."

I blinked. "Me?"

She nodded, that evil grin not leaving her face. "You're an objective party, _and_..." She chose a forkful of breakfast. "As your commanding officer? I'm ordering you to."

She popped it in her mouth, then. Watching her lips slide over the tool, her jaw moving as it worked the food. The light murmuring as she enjoyed her sumptuous breakfast.

I gave a gulp. "Yes, Mistress."


	16. Developments

Me and my big fat mouth.

As soon as breakfast was done, I was down in the galley – because that made the most sense – turning an empty pair of boxes that had until recently held napkins into suggestion boxes. Tim had nothing but smirks for me, and a number of annoying questions.

"So, what? Do we get to complain if the hallway isn't mopped often enough? Or too often enough?" He gave a harsh laugh. "Or if someone wakes up with a sore back after a night of rough love-making? Or if our neighbor keeps us up all night with a night of rough love-making?"

"Nah, it's more like 'Tim's cooking sucks – bring back Cookie!', and things like that," I finally answered.

He glared at me, then, but didn't ask me any more questions, and let me continue my work.

The set up was pretty basic – it came with a sign that detailed suggestions as to the proper use. I had a small stack of paper that I'd cut into quarters and a couple writing utensils to keep nearby. Instructions to write down your 'questions, comments, concerns' on the paper, fold, and put into the slot. It would be regularly emptied, silliness would be ignored, but a sincere effort would be put forward to answer any problems presented.

I was decidedly surprised with a crutch-laden Scott hobbled in and made his way straight toward me.

"Ah... Doyle, isn't it?" His smile was shark-like and less than friendly. "What are you up to over here? More ways to keep the sheepish masses in line, eh?"

Much as I wanted to be offended by his greeting, it sounded a bit too much like something the Captain would assign. "Something like that."

"Hmm... 'Questions, comments and concerns.' Oh, my. Which unfortunate soul gets to deliver this to the Captain?"

"That would be me," I answered, fighting to keep my voice even. The fact that I would go through them first and report to the First Mate before they made it that far wasn't something I was going to mention to a bridge watch.

Scott gave me a heartless chuckle. "Quaint." He shifted himself a bit closer to the wall, and leaned his whole weight against the wall – he had his left leg wrapped tightly in a cast, and I knew another patch covered a long scratch on his right arm, but he didn't seem to be complaining about the chance to get out of the Sick Bay. He laid the crutches against the wall and small table I had set up with the box, and he stole a pen and a small portion of the stack of paper.

"Hmm... What sort of love note should I leave the bastard, mm?" he pondered aloud. I said nothing, and he scribbled something down that, judging by the speed and ferocity of his fingers and the expression on his face would be rather seething and unkind. I watched him fold it, his fingers cutting alongside the crease, and drop it into the box. He dropped the remaining paper on the table and chuckled again, collecting his crutches and hobbling toward the line to harass Tim instead. With a quiet sigh, I replaced the box with the other, and slipped off to officer country to attend to my new task.

xxxx

As I had expected, the note was something particularly nasty about 'hope you die in a fire' and 'it's pleasure to work with the ugliest bastard ever shat out by the universe, because it makes one feel so much better about their own appearance' and I crumpled it up with a growl under my breath. I honestly stewed quite a bit about Scott's arrogance, but in all honesty, I should have expected it.

Because the collection after lunch was a LOT worse. I could just imagine that a number of people sat around the table with a stack of papers, competing as to who could make the most scathing insults to the officers. Of course, the assured anonymity meant that everyone felt quite safe in writing whatever they wanted, even if some of the penmanship was atrocious. I had wisely made the decision to go to my own bunk to sort through the papers, partly to keep Abigail from 'assisting' me and also so I had some privacy, and I was grateful for it.

Because if Scott had made me stew, this made me want to crash the ship into a nearby star just to be rid of the vile and perverse... I couldn't even say 'people' or 'persons', that inhabited the ship with me. It was disgusting.

The amount of outright hostility that some members of the crew had for someone they didn't even really see all that often told me that the Captain was either capable of far worse horrors than I had already seen, or they had very overactive imaginations that had been fed by the absolutely worst sort. In a way, I was guessing a combination thereof, but mostly the latter, because... Well, quite frankly, I don't know that the Captain had the free time to do the things that they were accusing him of.

The solitary glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel was a neatly done note in a pretty – I'm guessing feminine – penmanship.

" _What a good idea! Is there any chance someone could give the bathroom on Level 3 a good scrub? I try to work at it myself, but finding cleaning supplies can be a real bother. The men that use it messy it up real good, and without the purples, it's getting a bit out of hand."_

And... it was signed, "M".

I smirked a little. I could guess who it was, even without an initial as a hint, and set aside the note with care before turning to the next piece of filth.

xxxx

As per my orders, I reported to the First Mate with my findings.

"Well, Doyle?" she asked, her lips pursed, but a spark of mischief in her eyes. "What do the masses have to say?"

I fumed silently but managed to give off only a shrug. "I think a lot of them were under the impression it was a ruse. Lots of..." I clenched my teeth. "Lots of jokes. A bit of hazing and pokes about what a stupid idea it was." That part was definitely true. They openly mocked the absurd idea that the Captain would give a shit what they thought, as he obviously didn't care enough to make sure they all survived from one port to another and were treated like so much cattle... It struck me as a bit stupid since you would think if they were that unhappy they'd just resign, but I was again reminded of the potential for a literal translation of 'turn over rate'.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Feeling a bit personally offended?"

I nodded sharply. "Yes, Mistress, definitely."

She noted the honourary with interest but didn't ask about it. "So... failure?"

"Not entirely." I pulled out the single, positive note from my pocket, and unfolded it with care and placed it on the desk. She collected it and read it, curious.

"'Could someone give the toilet on Level 3 a good scrub?'" She laughed. "Well. Yes, that _is_ terribly encouraging."

She tossed the note back toward me, unimpressed, but I retrieved it and returned it to its place in my pocket.

"Permission to attend to that, Mistress?"

She outright blinked at me. And laughed again. "Really?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mistress. That is the point of it, right? Let the crew tell us the little things we can do to help the ship run better. Even if it's just a toilet, you use a toilet fairly often. Every time they see it – clean or otherwise – they will be reminded of whether or not their officers care. One answered request may spawn others. It's a very obvious start."

I knew she thought I was crazy, but my argument seemed to persuade her. Her mocking eyes softened into curiosity, and a certain amount of tenderness. "Very well, Doyle. You are dismissed."

I stood and bowed, before departing.

xxxx

As I stood outside of the First Mate's office, I sighed. Much as I would have loved to have told her 'absolutely nothing of interest', the words refused to come out of my mouth. Sugar-coated truth, I could manage that, but...

But I couldn't outright lie.

I chewed on that, spinning the problem around in my mind a little. Why couldn't I lie? I could lie in the galley – I could be snarky and sarcastic and give an outright fib pretty much anywhere except... in front of the First Mate.

Or was it? I returned my thoughts to the Captain, who could outright lie to the First Mate in her face... and had obviously been doing so for a while. So it couldn't be a personal thing unless he'd managed to get past whatever spell she had in place...

I thought of the 'interviews'. Although she could just as easily have taken each of them into a different room or even the back of the galley for their individual interrogation, she had them taken to her office. Part of that was intimidation, I'm sure, but...

I turned back to look at the door, curious. Was it perhaps something in her office? Perhaps one of the chests held something that forced the truth out of you. The hair on the back of my neck bristled, and I made a note of myself to be more careful when giving these reports. Rehearsing how I was going to tell the First Mate what I had found without giving away _too_ much was going to be a tricky thing to master.

I pondered idly that it would be great if I could take a couple of lessons from the Captain on that matter, but just as quickly tossed the thought out of my head as a shiver went down my spine.

And I looked about for the janitorial closet.


	17. Filth

You know how when you're a kid, and your parents make weird/arbitrary rules and then explain them away with 'You'll understand when you're older'? I never understood my mother's 'thing' about cleaning when she was mad, but as I scrubbed the absolutely filthy toilet on Level 3, I had a revelation.

There's an almost perverse joy to removing scourge from a normally white surface: I could almost imagine that each speck of gunk (that's what I was calling it, for the sake of my sanity) represented a scathing remark, cutting insult, or accusation that had likewise defiled the once-white paper that was currently locked away in my birth for proper disposal later. I actually brainstormed what form of torture and homicide would be most fitting for the whole batch of 'suggestions', and even relished the thought that I'd have more notes to destroy in the future.

In this strange way, I was quite possibly enjoying what should have been a miserable task and pleased myself to not only clean the toilet itself, but also the sink, floors, walls, and anything else I could get my hands on. I even straightened the towels and stocked the broom closet with a broom, mop, bucket, and selection of cleaning things.

This last part was actually much harder than I'd anticipated. It seemed like there wasn't a broom to be found anywhere in Level 3, except in Science (where Mary informed me that it was her _personal_ broom, and stealing it was punishable by death). When I finally made it to Cargo bay, I found what seemed like eight brooms crammed into a small cupboard, and a generous collection of mops as well. I asked Roger if I could take a helping, and he seemed more than glad to be rid of them, muttering something about Alice and lazy purples. I had just made up my mind to appropriately disperse the rest of them and found myself in a back corridor near the ladder to Officer Country.

And nearly ran into the Captain.

I say nearly because I spotted the black figure turn a corner just as I made to step into the hall. I stopped, immediately, and a loud 'KERFLUMP' and a heavy groan came to me from around the corner.

"You've got a lot of nerve," the Captain purred in a low, dangerous voice. Reason told me to run, but curiosity had always been my crime – as much as it made sense, I didn't take a step back toward the Cargo bay, but rather toward the chaos. Why I still don't know, but I'd like to think there's some unseen force that enjoys putting me in these sorts of situations just so they could see how I will react. It must be one hell of a show.

"Everyone's saying it," came a strained, dull voice. It was a bit off, but I recognized the obnoxious navigator at once – it was Scott, doubtless meeting the warning Mary had given him my first night aboard.

The Captain growled – a horrifying sound – and then I heard a choking noise.

Panic again told me to run like hell, and pretend I saw nothing, like a good little grunt. I made up some excuse about needing to report this kind of activity to the First Mate, but then I realized...

_'Are you beating obedience into my crew again, Captain?'_

_'My ship,_ my _crew...'_

And then the Captain's dark form facing away from me, that battered bat in one hand.

_'Unfortunately, most of these people are beasts…'_

And then, again, Mary's warning my first night: he would only have to worry about being Second Mate if he didn't piss off the Captain first.

It seemed that the cocky bastard had finally gotten what was coming to him.

"Like I give a shit about scuttlebutt," the Captain growled. " _You're_ the one causing trouble. And you'd be dead already if I could just decide on how exactly I wanted to do it..." There was a dark pleasure to his voice that chilled me to the bone, and if Scott wasn't scared, I certainly was. Scott was straining to breathe, and felt myself gag, holding a hand to my own throat – but I was otherwise paralysed as if I were held by some cruel, otherworldly power to bear witness to the gruesome scene. "In fact, it's damned tempting to just strangle you here..." There was a rustling as the engineer-turned-navigator struggled in vain, a horrifying gurgling noise just scarcely reaching my ears. And then just as suddenly, there was a mild crash, and the end of a crutch toppled out of the alcove, and the hacking, harsh cough of a choked man. "Fortunately for you, this is a terribly inconvenient place to commit murder. I mean, it's drag you through the halls to the cargo bay–" I gulped, as self-preservation noted that I was going to be in the way if that happened, and would surely join Scott in an untimely demise "–or up the ladder into Officer Country so I can toss you out a porthole. Neither of which seem worth the trouble to merely dispose of you." For his part, Scott said nothing but managed to bring his hacking down to a wheezing. "I would have thought this..." Here, he kicked the crutch into the hall, and the clatter echoed in the empty passage. "...would have been warning enough."

My mind hearkened back to Scott's complaints of pirates with shoddy marksmanship... and remembered with horror that we'd been the ones doing all the shooting.

The Captain's next words were so low I found myself inching closer to the wall that was my sole redemption to hear them. "And Bridge Watch should have taught you that you _do not_. Play with me."

Scott gave a last, mournful cough, and the memory came back of what it felt like to be a fish out of water.

The Captain's voice remained low, but it held the mechanical precision of his usual orders. "I expect you to report at 1800 exactly. Not _late_. Early, even, if you know what's good for you, which I highly doubt." I heard a spitting sound. "And you will keep your _filthy_ tongue to yourself, and speak only when asked a direct question."

I could almost feel the words, _Is that understood?_ but they weren't spoken, and accordingly, Scott said nothing.

I never heard the Captain leave, but knew he had when soft sobs reached my ears, entreating me to leave the broken man in peace.

xxxx

It was with a fearful heart that I reported to the First Mate's office with dinner, partly from what I'd witnessed and the insecurity that had been reawakened, but also from how the First Mate would react to my report. I wanted so badly to keep it to myself until I knew how best to share it, but my hopes weren't very high, with my guess that she had some truth-telling something in her office that kept my slippery tongue in check.

I knocked on the hatch, my incessant curiosity tugging at the puzzle.

"Who is it?" came the usual, impatient reply.

"Doyle, Mistress. I have dinner."

"Come on in."

I let myself in and saw she was swamped in paperwork. As usual. I wondered again how much of it was empty paperwork she put on herself for no reason... And how much of it was perhaps the Captain's lies?

The First Mate must have seen the concern on my face, but she definitely misinterpreted it.

"Did you do your dinner collection yet, Doyle?" she asked, a devilish grin on her lips.

I blinked. And then, I remembered: the reason I'd been there to bear witness to the scene – the toilet.

"Err... No, Mistress. I haven't."

She opened her dinner and inhaled the scent with a sigh before looking back up at me with those honeyed eyes. "Dreading it?"

I took a moment to... appreciate the opportunity presented to me. "Actually... I was kind of looking forward to it."

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

"Yeah," I answered. Again... Not really a lie. "Actually, do you mind if I go do that? I'll take dinner in my birth tonight."

She cocked her head to the side, but I think her overall expression was bemusement. "Alright. You're dismissed, Doyle."

And I scurried out of the room as fast as I could.

I spent dinner combing through the 'suggestions' in my birth, as I told the First Mate, but was a little relieved that there weren't as many this time. Apparently most of the ship had gotten their kicks out at lunch and didn't want to risk trying it more than once in a day. There were a few that still stank of vile imaginations more than the others – and I secretly wished I could figure out who wrote those little turds so I could dispose of them personally – but nothing to report on.

Except for one little note. It was in that same, pretty handwriting, and said only, "Thanks, Doyle!"

I smiled and tucked it into my pocket.


	18. Politics

I was woken the next morning by a polite, yet stern knock on my door. I scarcely managed to avoid bashing my head on Tim's bunk and answered the hatch carefully. To my surprise (and initial confusion) I found Alice in the doorway.

"Wotcher, Doyle," she grinned. She held out a bundle of cloth to me, and my hands took it, my eyes blinking before I realized they were a rather handsome shade of blue. I would like to add it was dark, and likely an ungodly hour.

"Right," I slurred. "I'd forgotten about these. Thanks, Alice."

She chuckled. "Just chuck the others in the laundry, and they'll find their way back to me." And then she saluted me and gave a small bow. "Sir."

I saluted back and closed the door behind her. For a long moment, I stared at the ship suits and thought of nothing. Then I looked up at the clock and, realizing _how_ ungodly an hour it was, crawled back into bed.

xxxx

At a more reasonable hour, I woke and reported to the First Mate's office for some sorely-needed coffee. I was surprised (again) to find that she was already fully caffeinated and working, but with the growling demeanor that was the Captain's trademark.

"Good morning, Doyle," she greeted, her words curt and short, even for 0700. "I have good news and bad news for you today."

_Oh dear_ , I thought miserably. I took a nice gulp of liquid wakefulness before asking, "Yes?"

"The _good_ news is, we hit Stockerd tonight." If I were a dog, I imagine my ears would have perked right up. "Which means, among other things, you will finally get your birth in Officer Country."

I blinked. Live? In Officer Country? Any illusions I had about trying to recover from the reputation of 'officer stooge' that had been thrust upon me were slaughtered in a bloody, ax-filled scene worthy of a bad zombie film. I had forgotten about the inevitable birthing change.

"A-alright," I managed, but there was no real joy there.

"Also," she added with a shark's sneer. "We have a new Second Mate. The Captain has volunteered Abigail to fetch his meal for this morning, but I thought you should know."

I thought of the fatted pig who had worn the scarlet suit previously and tried to bite back my grimace. "Who is it?"

I realized a second too late that was probably an impertinent question, but she was actually itching to tell me.

"Our own Scott Sterling, actually," she answered, snarling out the name like a curse.

I'm sure I blanched, but again, she didn't seem to notice. My mind brought up the image of the tossed crutch, and the sound of the broken engineer-turned-navigator, now Second Mate. Curiously enough, the only word that came out of my mouth was...

"Interesting."

She gave me that wicked grin. She, too, found it terribly 'interesting', and I fetched breakfast, mulling this new information over in my head.

xxxx

The day went by without much more ado until the bridge crew caught the port in their sights a little before lunch. Suddenly, everything was chaos, and I was made to abandon "the Project" (which was making good progress – Abigail said we had a good chance of finishing it in plenty of time for "testing" – a horrifying thought) and instead ferry paperwork back and forth from the First Mate to Scott, who seemed under permanent station in the helm.

"You call me Master now, boy," he growled at me. He looked very, very tired. The Captain watched us from the helm, even while turned away. "I'm Second Mate, now. Least you can do is show me my due respect."

"Aye aye, Master," I said, humoring him. "Some more paperwork from Mistress, Master."

He grumbled under his breath and dismissed me with a wave. The Captain had him seated at one of the work tables, but there was no crutch to be seen.

Back in the hall, I passed Abigail and tossed her a friendly salute that made her smile. She, too, had been running around the ship since the call, but never once did she have paperwork.

"That's your job now, Doyle," she'd informed me with a rather smug smirk. But what it was she was actually doing, I couldn't be sure.

When we finally docked and leave was called (which meant anyone not on duty was free to enjoy the dirt) it was well into the dinner hour. As it was, the First Mate asked me to stay aboard, at least until after breakfast, so she could have me finish a few errands here and there, but let me wander down to the galley for a break.

It was definitely very cheery as the crew finished their suppers, many of them toasting the abstract joy of a port outside the hatch.

"Bloody hell, just think!" said Mike. "A decent drink! Not that I'm a drunkard, mind you, but I've been itching for something a bit stronger than coffee for weeks! I always get stuck on duty when we're stuck in port, it seems." He chuckled, and I found that curious.

"Are we not in port long?"

"Not usually. Seems like we're only in less than a day or two. Just enough to get in, load up, and get out." He shrugged. "Mind, we don't usually load up much. This last hop was pretty short, so I'd be surprised if we're here to lunch."

I know my face dropped at that. I could hear it in my voice. "Really?"

Mike blinked at me, and then laughed, a hearty bark. "Bahaha! First port out, and greenie gets stuck on the ship! My friend, that's the life for ya. In and out, quick and easy. But don't worry! I'll drink to your health, how's that?"

I glowered at him, but it didn't stop him from walking out with the rest of them, all rejoicing over the promise of the evening before them. I was grumbling over a cup of coffee when a familiar voice reached my ears.

"Mr. Doyle! Earth to Doyle!"

I looked up with a start to see an olive ship suit, graying sandy hair, and a shiny silver ring.

"Cookie!" I shouted, and was up and out of my seat. "Hell, I ain't seen you in forever!" I spotted Tim stepping out of the kitchen to join us. "I tell you, I've lost twenty pounds since you left, it's just not the same." The cook laughed, and his junior just grumbled something close to 'ungrateful'. "So, are you back-back? For good?"

"Oh, I never leave the _Condor_ for long," he assured me. "The crew would mutiny, and I think the young Miss would throw herself overboard if I weren't about to spoil her." I wasn't sure how, but I knew he meant Abigail. "And the Captain would never allow that."

"I'm also pretty sure you said Scott wouldn't make it to Second, Cook," Tim remarked. "But he got his breakfast with the officers this morning."

Cookie found that very interesting. "Did he now?"

I nodded. "Master's been holed up in the Bridge all day, doing paperwork for Mistress."

At that, Cookie laughed. "Holed up in the Bridge, eh? Oh, Cap'n doesn't like him one bit. No, he doesn't. Well! Ain't that a tale." And then he turned to Tim. "Tim, me boy? Thanks for watching the shop."

"Yeah yeah yeah... I'mma go get drunk, alright?"

Cookie chuckled. "Have fun. Be back by 2! We'll need to feed those drunks when they stumble back."

Tim made a non-committal 'bah' and joined the rest, clamoring out to cargo. I watched the older man don an apron, and I felt my heart warm.

"It really is good to have you back, Cookie."

He chuckled. "I've not been gone that long! You're really gonna hate it when I leave for Chryssam."

My first thought was of the Captain, scowling as he sliced a side of roast beast, the First Mate batting her eyes at him with a sprig of mistletoe, and Scott growling about soggy stuffing.

"Oh gods..." I muttered. "Chryssam on the _Condor_. That sounds terrifying."

Cookie laughed and laughed. "Doyle, my boy, I was just kidding! I live here the same as you, and I assure you, the feast will be plentiful. And the Captain even allows me to make my amazing nog - you'll _have_ to try it if you're still with us."

...I decided to take that as a hopeful invitation. "Thanks, Cookie. I hope I'm still around, then."

xxxx

Back in Officer Country, things were quiet. I peeked into the bridge and saw the Captain was not at the helm, but at the front port, looking down at the lights below. It was an almost fantastic sight, the port twinkling like a sky full of so many stars, the pilot making note of their positions for navigation.

I quietly moved on, venturing into the Captain's side of Officer Country. I peeked into the work room, and was relieved to see Abigail toiling on "the Project". By now, the main construction was finished, but we needed all of the little covers and slots and levers in place before proper testing could begin. _Shiver._ I knocked on the door frame. She looked back at me, her hair like a whip.

"Yes, you can come in, yes, you can help, no, it's not done yet." She returned to the construct before her and wrenched something on. "And even if we was. Captain says he wants to try it out first."

I felt something tug at my lips. "You sound disappointed."

She tossed the wrench. "Damn straight."

Someone so young growling and cursing about play rights struck me as terribly funny. But I managed not to snort at her.

She picked up a screwdriver and pounded a screw in. "'S not fair. I been workin' on this loads more 'an he has. How come he gets first shot?"

She was rather adorable as a frustrated little girl. The look suited her. "Well, I suppose because... He's the Captain?"

She glared at me. "So?"

I shrugged. "That's not good enough?"

She huffed. "It shouldn't be! I'm practically Cap'n myself!"

I felt a learning opportunity was beginning to present itself, but I wasn't sure if the student was to be me or her. I decided to let it be me. "Why do you say that?"

"Cos!" She huffed, her eyes glaring at the space before her. "Most times he's playing helmsman, steering the bloody ship. And most times, he's not even doing that. He's just up there thinkin'. Plottin'. Mullin' over little ideas in his head until they become somethin'. He only sits in the bridge so as to keep an eye on brats what he don't like. So people think he don't sleep."

I found that curious. "Brats he don't like?" I echoed.

She glared at me. "Doesn't like."

Now that was curious. "No, I mean... what brats..." Great, now she's got me thinking about my syntax. "Who is it he doesn't like?"

She snorted, like a nasty little piglet who was explaining the wonders of shit in your mud. "The Second Mate, for starters. But he has spies all over the ship that report to him." And then she smiled, a wicked grin. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"

I tried to look away. "Alright."

She _giggled_ at me. "Oh, Doyle. The Captain's right. You're _adorable_."

Alright, that got me a bit miffed. The rest of the crew thought I was some kind of goon, but the Captain found me 'adorable'? "What 'spies' does the Captain have? And why would he?"

She smiled at me. "Alright, I'll walk you through it. Name the first half a dozen people you met upon coming aboard."

That caught me by surprise. "Ah..." Phew. "Well, Rhea escorted me on. Does she count?"

She nodded, beaming.

"Alright... Rhea. The First Mate." I grimaced. "The Captain. Does Bridge Crew count?"

She shrugged. "Not really."

…Weird. "Alright. Um… Cookie. And then Tim, and the rest of the crew."

"Who else were you _introduced_ to?"

Introduced. "Um... Alice?" Because I had to get ship suits done up.

"Yep!" She returned to her things. I looked dubious.

"What, Alice is the spy?"

"Spies," she corrected. "You've already named them all."

Rhea, First Mate, Captain – not his own spy – Cookie…

Cookie would definitely make a good spy. So... "Cookie and Alice?"

She winked at me. "Adorable as you are, the First Mate is right – you're clever enough." She shrugged. "With the right direction."

I narrowed my eyes at her. That sounded just like something the First Mate would say. But I also imagine that 'adorable' was said with a derisive eye roll, which seemed a bit more in character for the Captain.

So... Cookie and Alice were spies for the Captain. It put an interesting light on the cook's comment of 'loyalties firmly established'. I decided I would need to think on this a bit more. I retired to my bunk, quiet as the ship was now, and unwittingly drifted off to sleep.

xxxx

0200 made itself known. Since my birth in Officer Country was reliant on our port stay, I was to spend the night in my old bunk. Which meant when 'the drunks stumbled in', as Cookie put it, they woke me with quite a bit of noise. I quickly decided no sleep would be had with all the ruckus across the hall, and found some reassurance in the old saying, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'

Things were as much abuzz tonight (or rather, this morning) as they were my first night. Although perhaps more. There were no growling watchstanders complaining about long nights and early take-offs, just a band of happy, drunken spacers singing ancient sea shanties that I knew, and a couple I didn't.

"... _I'm a whalin' man, and I don't give a damn 'bout the wind or the rain or the weather._.."

Cookie was busy in the kitchen, while a wobbly Tim re-armed a coffee urn. A street-clothed greenie pushed a tray of sandwiches.

"... _For life is rich on a pirate ship, so long as there's plenty of treasure_..."

For a bittersweet moment, I smiled. It felt just like home. The smell of booze, the tired waitstaff, a longing to have that kind of carefree joy, even if just for a little while. And for once, I wasn't one of the waitstaff, tired and busking. I could sit and relish the moment. So I did. I tried to make my way across the room to the black brew of life.

"... _So haul away, lads, haul away! Devil take us all to an early grave_..."

I beamed at Tim, sure they were tears in my eyes, and he blessed me with a mug of the liquid gold. My heart sang out with the rest of them, and my voice joined in with the chorus.

"... _I live my life in my own waaaay!_..."

Oh, the last chorus. I and others laughed as the more dramatic had fun with the lingering note, preparing for the finale. For one, I was surprised Mikey could hit such a high and pretty falsetto.

"... _By the swooord, and the cannon's... thuuuunderrrrrr_..."

A number of them slammed their hands on the tables, as if the rain were already falling, the amiable mischief building into a crescendo that a bandleader marked, and then, "BOOM!"

And then, just like a gunshot, my face was meeting with a fist. I never saw it coming. My head hit the table on the way down, and the rest of me made a graceless visit with Cookie's floor.

I lay for a moment, stunned, as the pain of the frontal assault and hot coffee all over my ship suit buzzed under my skin, my mind not quite registering what had happened. I remember looking up at the flushed and furious face of Roger, from cargo, his orange suit like something out of a penitentiary. Tim was looking down at me with either delusion or pity – I couldn't tell – but when our eyes met, he turned away, leaving me to the mob. I watched him go, numb, but too soon the noise and chaos came back to me in a rush of color, and I saw Roger pull a fist back to strike again. The entire bloodthirsty crew was roaring and cheering in the background, fists in the air, voices clamoring, begging for a chance.

They say your life passes before your eyes right before you die. I was never sure if I should believe that, but I know now it's more of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

There was a communal groan in sympathy as I felt bone meet skin and tooth, a nasty crack resounding through my skull. My head bounced off the stone floor with a dull thud, and the crowd cheered.

"Get off 'im, _get off 'im!_ "

The crowd parted to the growling visage of the cook, whose eyes flashed a dark green. He towered over the cargoman, who shook his bloody knuckles, glaring at the intrusion. My savior stared him down, and Roger walked away, content that he'd had his say. The crowd still jeered.

"Go back to Officer Country, stooge!" someone shouted.

Another cried out, "Send this to your Captain!"

Cookie snarled at all of them. "BACK, YOU SAVAGES!"

It was then everyone noticed the meat cleaver he twirled in one hand, and the bulging muscles that ripped in his arms. "I MEAN IT, BACK!"

He brandished the massive slice of steel, spittle flying. Flight instinct allowed me to stand, staring in horror at the faceless crowd of spacers, the very real threat of death dripping from my skin.

"Doyle, get out of here," he said, his voice low and flat.

Panic overtook me as my eyes automatically made note of the danger that filled the room between me and the door that led to salvation, the safety of my bunk.

And then I remembered the scarlet of my betrayer, who slept in that room as well, and it suddenly felt a lot less safe.

_There is another door_ , a quiet voice of reason suggested. My head snapped to the doors that were just beside the coffee table, and next I knew, I was in the hall, the clamoring voices ringing in my ears, but not my head.

I listened to my panting breath with a detached interest. I pictured the map the First Mate had given me in my mind, but paranoia limited my options. I could go to the cargo bay and go up from there, but what if Roger went back to his duty station? Tim and the same sign for my usual route. Plus, I wanted to not even look at the galley this instant. The lift, then. It wasn't flawless, but out of the way enough that I had a spatial advantage.

Before I finished the thought, I was waiting for the cage to come to me. I checked over my shoulder before I locked myself in, and jabbed the button that would take me up, and my eyes scanned the hall for nothing while my fingers clutched the wire mesh that was the only thing to separate me from the rest of the ship.


	19. Report

The lift hit the top, and I spilled out onto the floor. I collapsed for a moment, my shoulders shaking as I heard a couple of sobs escape my lips. But I couldn't really feel them. I managed to get to my feet and looked about, but being so early in the morning – and late in the shift – there was no one about in Officer Country. My head was pulsing, and I could feel nausea creeping up on me. At the end of the hall, the lights of the bridge shone like a beacon, and I moved my feet toward heaven.

When I got in, there was no sign of the Captain. Just Scott – sorry, the Second Mate – and the gum-chewer, standing watch.

Scott was surprised by my sudden entrance. "What the–" And then he got a look at my face. "Holy crap. What the hell happened to you?"

My first response was more of a stutter than anything. "The Captain," I managed.

He gestured back the way I'd come. "He's in his cabin." I moved that way, and he called after me, "Ye don' want to wake him!"

I tried to knock but ended up banging instead with meaty fists. It was a heartbeat before his hatch wrenched open, and wide, yellow eyes stared out at me from the dark. I could just make out his nostrils flaring, doubtless inhaling my panicked stench, and his torso recoiled.

I stood, not moving. In hindsight, I felt like my mind was... rebooting. It knew to alert the Captain, but... past that, there was no directive. I shivered at the thought.

A seething hiss brought my mind back to the Captain. The half-Xoac Captain.

"Who did this?" His voice was quiet, and yet hard. Hard as steel, and it took my voice away. I sputtered, but no proper words came out. He growled and stalked to the bridge. The ship suit he'd tossed on was only done half-so – it hung low on his hips, and I could see where the scales petered out on the sides, and gave way to his greenie skin. As I followed him to the light, I noticed how many little dark spots decorated his hide. When a Kaeguri reached full maturity in their 20s, they started growing the dots, and his own collection was rather extensive. I realized he had to be in his late forties, at least. Maybe well into his fifties, or beyond. My mind welcomed the distracting observation, and I basked for a moment in my trivial knowledge.

When he entered the bridge, Comms stood in a quick salute. The Second Mate had managed to stand in my wake, and he, too, saluted.

"Captain," Master greeted.

"At ease." They dropped the salutes. "What's going on?" His voice was quiet, a growl.

Scott looked at me. "I don't know, Captain. It didn't happen in Officer Country."

The Captain's blood-red eyes turned to me. "Where did this happen?"

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, and to ignore growing nausea. "The galley," I answered. My voice was a ghost.

"On the horn," the Captain ordered. Comms nodded with an 'Aye, Captain,' and hailed the room in question. There was a bell of sorts, and it rang a total of three times before anyone answered. I watched the Captain's tail switch back and forth in sharp, deliberate strokes.

His toes tapped.

"This is Galley," Cookie's voice finally answered. I felt something resembling a stone sinking in my gut at what sounded an awful lot like well-disguised panic. After years in food service, I could hear the way your voice went into a higher pitch to express well-meaning politeness. It was much easier to lie to a customer that way.

"Bridge," the Captain purred. There was quite a bit of noise in the background. "What's going on on my ship?"

"Just some drunks, Captain," he answered. "The situation's been contained. Full report once things have quieted."

"Montgomery." He insisted. "There has been an act of _mutiny_ on my ship." My blood turned to ice at the word. "You know very well that I have no tolerance for such things."

There was a moment before the cook answered, in which I looked to Scott, the Second Mate. His eyes were fixed on the Captain, but his face was pale. Comms' jaw was clenched, but she kept her attention on her task.

"Aye aye, Captain," was Montgomery's only response.

The Captain hung up the line, and we all stood, silent, awaiting orders. It was a moment before he spoke. The motion behind him caught my wandering eyes, and I watched his tail slow to a halt, and a shiver whispered down his spine before he cricked his neck. I think Scott swallowed something, and the gum chewer was no longer chewing.

"Master Sterling. File charges with Stockerd's port authority. Assault on an officer, public intoxication, and inciting a riot. I also want you to check every duty station. Entry logs, roster – double and triple check. I want to know who is in that room, especially if they weren't supposed to be. Mark this in the log." He checked the wall. "Oh-two-23. Complaint made, Captain responded. Charges filed with the port authority. The Second Mate was OOD at the time of the incident." Scott blinked, his brow knitted over his sharp green eyes. The Captain turned his face toward the Second Mate. "Did you get all of that?"

To my surprise, Scott nodded. "File charges with Stockerd: assault on an officer, public drunkenness, and riot. Captain responded, charges filed, I'm OOD. Logging at 0223." He paused. "I assume you want me to file before logging?"

The captain's lips curled into a ghastly slice of teeth. "Actually, I want it logged first. 0223."

Scott nodded, careful. "Aye, Captain. File charges, and then check duty stations, logins, and etc. Triple check. Report back to you."

"Actually, run your checks while you're on hold with Stockerd. They'll have you busy for a while." Here, he turned back to the doorway, where I still stood. By some miracle. "When each check is done, send it to my terminal. When Montgomery reports, send it to my terminal." He paused here and glanced me over. "For now, keep an eye on Mr. Doyle." His eyes flashed. "If anything more happens to him, I will hold you personally responsible."

I looked to Scott, but his attention was loosely fastened to a grate on the floor. He swallowed. "Aye, Captain."

The Captain gave me a smirk that was only comforting in the way a dragon reassured that thief barbecue would be for dinner tonight if the thief in question had stolen something you'd been borrowing from the aforementioned dragon. I shivered, and couldn't help but watch him stalk back to his cabin.

The Second Mate sighed. "Alright, Doyle. Pull up a chair." His voice was tired, and a bit pitying, but there was also something of rising to the task. "It's going to be a long day. Try to get some rest." He had Lisa set up the log for him, and fetch me a blanket from his quarters down the hall. But I never saw her come back – the chatter of jargon was more than enough to lay me back to rest as my body fell limp from exhaustion.


	20. Civil

I don't remember the last time I had seen a proper morning. Being the son of a pub owner, I'd seen the sun rise plenty outside of the window, but I was usually too tired by then to really appreciate the spectacle. It was with quiet that I watched the line that separated the sea from the sky, a stripe of bruised red marking where Chaidaz would crack onto the planet, flooding it with life-giving energy. I amused myself by imagining on this rock, and on others far away, there were farmers' sons who were already tilling the ground and doing chores, while the sons of pubbies were crawling into bed.

Among those not sleeping was most of the crew. While the planet was starting their morning, the crew of the _Condor_ was moving into the third shift, after which I was to be going ashore. For now, I was sitting in the pilot's chair that had been my cot, although I hadn't been able to sleep for long. I watched as the murky purple faded to a dusty rose, tangerine and lemon meringue creeping up over the tops of Stockerd's docks.

There was a new girl on communications, her short black hair pulled back in a small tuft, and her mocha eyes trying not to look in my direction. Scott was still working at navigation. He didn't make conversation with me, despite the uneasy silence of the bridge (made more uneasy by the persistent lack of Captain at the helm) and she followed his lead.

It was… strange. For some reason, my soul was at peace about the whole affair, despite the fact I ought to be terrified, feel betrayed, and certainly fear the wrath of my crew. _The_ crew. How could I still think of them as my mates when they turned on me so? Well, if there's one thing I know, it's drunks, and the things they got up to under the influence were merely indicative of how they really felt —- and what I had seen was a band of merry sailors before a pesky officer stooge crashed the party. I had to be honest: when I was galley crew, I was quick friends with all, but since my duties moved to Level 1, I'd become a pariah. Perhaps I should just accept the stigma, and be grateful I was getting a new birth. In Officer Country. Where I apparently belonged.

When the shift change came, the crew switched places in silence, without the need of an officer to oversee it. Or maybe I counted? The new girl chanced a kind smile my way, but I said nothing. All I saw was a naive pity, and it made me sick to my stomach.

The Captain and Second Mate stepped onto the bridge after it'd all been done, his quiet claws swallowing what floor there was from the hatch to the helm. He slipped onto his throne, then turned it toward me. There was a strange look on his face that, on a less self-loathsome day might have worried me, but for now I just accepted that this demon was the company I would keep.

"How are you doing this morning, Doyle?"

"I've been better, Captain," I answered honestly. I looked to Scott, who stood at the entrance, favoring his cane. "We are ready to go?"

The Captain nodded, a spark of mischief in his yellow-red eyes. "And as soon as your business concludes, we take off again." His lips peeled back for a crocodile smile. "So be quick about it."

I had the decency to gulp, and nodded, "Yes, Captain," and joined the Second Mate.

As we walked (well, I walked. Slowly. He hobbled alongside me), he said nothing, but for the occasional, "Right, here." The morning was bright and yellow, and the marketplace burst to life around us as we picked our way through the streets. I wondered idly what a sight we made, walking the docks in our red and blue ship suits, me with my swollen face, and Scott with his heavy cane. We might have been easy marks, but for the Second's scowl and sharp eyes, which warned even me that we were on important business, and not to be bothered. By the time we reached the Port Affairs office, he was making a good show of strength, but the sweat on his brow, and the white in his knuckles on his cane, belied that pain that made his steps choppy and desperate. He held a tight fist to one side, his scowl cutting deeper not to threaten, so much as to express his immense displeasure. I was actually surprised he didn't throw himself on the help desk when we got inside and even managed to speak without shaking.

"We need to report an incident," he drawled, adopting an impatient tone that might have been part of his impromptu officer's training. His entire body coiled with tension, but the secretary seemed to think this was the anger of a righteous sort, and instead looked at me with pursed lips. I tried my best to look pathetic, and deserving of his wrath.

She reached under the desk and handed us both a set of forms to fill out. I thanked her kindly, and we took two seats (the lobby surprisingly not that crowded, though not as empty as I would have thought for shore life) and filled out the forms. Scott instructed me as to what I should answer honestly, and supplied lies for others — generally, it was the details pertaining to command. The Captain, according to what I wrote down, was a man named Roger Barger, and the First Mate a Jasper Morello — I knew the latter was the former Second, and I once more had a fleeting question of what fate he had befallen and wondered also as to who Roger Barger had once been. He had a note with ship details that were written in the Captain's scratchy scrawl, and I felt certain they, too, were dishonest. I knew what we were doing was fraud, but I realized that, given the Captain was half-Xoac, it was highly unlikely he had a legal presence of any sort. The First, too, was from that end of the galaxy, and any ship that was Captained by a toad-lizard bastard was likely to be less than legal, so of course, they had to have details fudged for this purpose. We waded through the paperwork and then waited in a tired silence until our names were called. We were led to a back office, where a rather fat-faced, sweating fellow was sitting behind a desk as if it were a part of his anatomy.

"Ah, yes. Master Scott," he greeted. "And…" He checked the paper again, frowning. "Meredith?"

"Doyle, please," I replied. Scott's lips twitched, but he said nothing.

"Ah, yes. Please, have a seat." We did so, Scott managing not to make a groan as he fell into the chair, and I debated between studying the uninteresting mulberry carpet and watching the civil servant seeing to our case. There was a long couple of minutes as he reviewed our case, and in the process, Scott's fingers ceased their tight clenching, to instead caress the makeshift limb. I watched him from the corner of my eyes and wondered if perhaps the wood had been so polished by his grip as of late that it brought comfort to him. Now that I thought on it, it was rather baffling that he was up and about as much as he was — particularly for a venture as far as this — but I imagine he didn't have much choice in the matter. At the very least, he didn't complain quite so much now that he was the Second as he had when he'd been in the hospital bed, cursing about pirates and lousy shots.

The civil servant attracted my attention again with a weary sigh and a shuffling of papers. He took off a pair of glasses and put it down on the desk, rubbing his eyes. "Drunks, yeah?"

Scott nodded. "Aye, sar. You know how it is."

He nodded as well. It was an old tale. "Well… I'm afraid that, short of locking him up for some sobering, there's not much we can do. And you say here that Captain Barger wants to leave port rather promptly. I don't suppose he wants to be paying to ship his crewman to the next port of call, nor does he want to lose another member of the ship, yes?"

The Second was definitely getting officer lessons from the Captain and the First. His smile was serpentine, and so insincere it tasted like almonds in your coffee. "No, sir. Our people are a precious commodity."

The civil servant smiled kindly. But it faltered slightly. He held up a paper. "It says here the Captain responded. But you were OOD at the time."

"That's right."

He peered at Scott. "Do you not have a morale officer on board?"

Scott blinked. "Sorry?"

I flicked my eyes from one to the other. The servant put on a sad, knowing smile.

"Ah, yes. This will help you a great deal." He leaned over the desk. "Generally speaking, a morale officer is just there to keep the peace — much like how you, as the Second, help bridge the gap from crew need to officer action, the morale officer helps gap the crew from crew need to… officer awareness." He gave a smile that was just as procedural. "Traditionally, it is a junior crewman." His eyes flickered to me.

Scott gave a soft snort and covered it with a cough and a hand. "Yes, I… I'm aware of the tradition. Sorry— It's just, we don't really have anyone…" He looked at me as well, but there was definitely a smirk on his lips. "Well. There's decidedly a division of labor, let's say."

"Hmm." It was a very loaded sound. "Well, that might be part of your problem. Sir." He shuffled his papers. "I'd advise you to remedy the situation. Or…" He paused, as if a rather wonderful idea had just occurred to him. "Perhaps a ship chaplain?"

Scott's mouth squirmed. "That might be worse."

The servant shrugged. "Well, one never knows. I encourage you to try — we have a number of licensed chaplains of varying religions available in planets all over the system, and the Alliance has very stringent standards for their religious officers." It was like selling chocolates, I noted with glee. He pulled out another form. "Here, I'll give you the form. Fill it out and drop it off before you leave, and any interested parties will make themselves known to you. Perhaps one could meet you at your next port of call."

Scott took the form with false gratitude, and we managed to get a dismissal before he could push more things on us. Outside, we found a terminal and made contact with the _Condor_.

"He suggested a ship chaplain," he reported, with a roll of his eyes. He was leaning against the machine with a hip, twirling the cane in his fingers. I couldn't quite make out anything the Captain was saying, but I could hear his growling. He was not pleased. "Well, it'll take a little bit for the paperwork to go through, but we'll need at least a half-hour window to say we gave it our best shot. So we're looking at another hour until launching." Something that sounded distinctly like a curse. "It was that, or he suggested a morale officer, but considering that the best candidate for that is Doyle…" He looked down at me with that same smirk. The Captain grumbled something in reply, and Scott's eyes flickered to the sky once more. "Aye, Captain. Leave to get something to eat before we trek back?" He must have got an affirmative because he nodded. "Thank you, sar. Be back later."

He hung up the phone and looked at me with a fond smile. "Alright, Doyle. What do you want for lunch?"


	21. Blakely

It felt so… _weird_ being on land again. You didn't really notice it, but on the ship, there was always the subtle thrum of engines, the vibrations of machinery, the whir of environmental. It was imperceptible, what with the artificial gravity, but there was a light roll to her flights, too. But for sudden jolts (like when the Captain was chasing his prey), the ship felt like an island of its own, standing in an ocean of stars and planets and endless space. Planetside, the dirt felt almost… alien. Which I guess it was, in the most literal sense. But forgetting semantics, there was a stillness — nigh on a void — to the universe, strapped as we were to this rock. And as I dined with the Second Mate, my consciousness of the lack of motion unsettled me.

Scott grinned at me around a foreign dish that might have stained Cookie's pans with the acrid red spices. It had settled itself into my nose rather quickly, and I was certain I wouldn't be getting it out anytime soon — not without copious amounts of sneezing and flushing. "What's the matter, boy? Swaying on space legs?"

I oughtn't have been surprised by the term, but I suppose I just hadn't heard it put quite that way before. I nodded. "Aye, sar. I didn't realize how much noise and moving the ship does until I'm off." I wondered if I looked a bit green. "It's… very strange."

He nodded, in what I wish to say was approval. "You'll get used to it. Always takes some adjustment." He didn't say much else as we finished the meal, and he paid the bill.

Our walk back was unhurried, and I let my eyes wander over the various shops and stalls that lined the roads. _The more things change_ , I thought. With the exception of some exotic fruit and local artistry, I could have easily mistaken this for the marketplace at home, at Neris. Even the smithies looked the same: broad-shouldered, sun-kissed skin covered in grime, sweat, and hard work, the smell of musk and steam and hot metal absolutely smothering (and fighting for dominance with the Second's spices) over the cries of gems, books, collectibles, and wares.

Back at the docks, I found myself anxious to set my sights on the bird that I oddly enough considered my home. You would think, with a swollen face, a demon for a captain, and an unpopular standing with the crew, I might not be so pleased to see the _Condor_ , brooding beauty that she was, a vulture biding her time before launching after her doomed prey. But it was almost more welcoming than the cottage I'd shared with my mother, the steely feathers resting for now, but ready to take off on my return.

So I was doubly intrigued when a stripe of possession took hold of me as I spotted the black-clad figure at the foot of the gangplank. The doors to the ship were locked, and the figure seemed to be hiding from the morning sun under an admittedly silly-looking farmer's hat. It was decidedly floppy, and a soft yellow — the sort of thing that was good for shade, but let in air so your head could breathe. Personally, I'd not be caught dead wearing something so ridiculous. He had a certain amount of brass to him, was my first impression.

When the head tilted up, the face was human, with light skin and eyes a bright grey, like fine silver, or the steel of clouds when a storm was fast approaching. White, whole teeth split open in a lopsided smile. The eyes danced between us, sharp and spirited.

"Hello, boys!" a warm, cheery voice greeted us. "Say, this wouldn't happen to be the…" He hesitated, a thumb tossed back at the ship, and then shook a piece of paper open. "The _Condor?_ " He looked up at us again with that damned smile. "Because, I mean, the color and port match, but that isn't exactly a merchant's vessel."

Ice ran through my veins. On our paperwork, we'd lied that the fighter carrier was a small cargo ship. Had we been found out?

Scott did an amazing impression of the Captain at his most unimpressed, holding his cane before him, his hands resting there as if it were a fashion statement. "Have you need of cargo shipped?" I felt there ought to have been a 'sar' at the end of his question. The way the stranger's smile grew ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving the Second's face, told me he heard it, too.

The man stood, light on his feet. "Actually, I was interested in the ship chaplain birth." I realized he'd been sitting on a duffle bag that looked like it'd seen better days, but could be trusted for a while longer still. He held out a clean hand. "Father Nicholas Blakely."

Scott's hands did not move. Nor did his green eyes leave Blakely's grey. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Father," he said.

The priest did not take the warning. "No, I'm quite certain." He held up the paper and read it aloud. "Open birth for ship chaplain. No religious preference listed, no prerequisite for experience. It states that the vessel is a small merchant class…" He again glanced over his shoulder at the ship and shrugged. "But, ah…" He moved the paper closer to his face as if to assist short-sightedness. "Says here the post was made almost an hour ago. No update on status, and considering I've not seen the hatch open for a soul for the last forty ticks, I don't think it's because of an overabundance of applicants." He made a show of looking around, in case he was mistaken. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, and I saw the Second's grip tighten on his cane. "Last I checked the laws…" He took care to fold his hard copy, long, slender, sure fingers pressing a hard line into the folds. "Given the lack of competition and nonexistent specifications on the original post, I feel I would have a very good case for discrimination. I'd hate to have to endure a case for something so silly as a birth. It's bad for morale."

There was a quiet, but resolute challenge issued. Scott's jaw merely clenched before he answered softly, "Please, Father. I believe you are mistaken."

The priest sighed, looking down to his paper with regret, and opened it once more. I shifted from foot to foot and looked up at the ship. The hatches were still sealed shut, and from here it actually had an almost abandoned feel to it, without crew coming and going. I craned my neck to the bridge, but the Captain was not there. Nor was the First. I did see a crewman flit into view, poking a head out toward the window — was that Simon? — but they dipped right back in. I returned my attention to the battle of wills.

"…It says here the post was put in by Second Mate Scott Sterling," he mused, checking the paper for more clues. "I assume that's you?"

Scott did not answer him.

But then he looked up, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and he studied Scott's face. "…That's not Scott Sterling of the Skylark Sterlings, is it?"

xxxx

I had no intention of figuring out if Scott Sterling _was_ of the Skylark Sterlings, because gods, did it piss him off. Any kindness in encouraging the unwanted chaplain to give up the post for less poisoned soil was completely dispelled as Scott banged on the port door — and not without hurting himself, I'm sure — and a rather cowed-looking Roger answered. He quickly glanced over the party, and ducked his eyes low, not looking at me, muttering his respective titles as we passed, and then quickly locking the hatch behind us.

I spotted Alice panicking on the other side of the room, talking into a comms — with the bridge, no doubt — but Scott didn't attract her attention. "Follow me," he ordered, his voice an impatient growl. His cane clicked on the ground, and he started a good clip.

Blakely grunted. "Your hospitality leaves much to be desired, Master Sterling."

"Actually, it's just _Master_ , if you please," and his growl was becoming more pronounced as we made our way through the hangar, and a brogue began to thicken as well. Eyes followed us, and we moved at Scott's pace, Blakely stuttering alongside him, and myself taking up a kind of rear-guard. As we crept through the passages, Blakely barraged the Second Mate with questions.

"Is there only human crew aboard?"

"We're known to take on a Tahrusiain or Kaeguri here and there, but at present, we are an entirely human crew, yes." And then, almost in an afterthought. "Well, except for the greenie in Officer Country."

I balked. I know what he was going for — as I said, that could be confusing, because he could be referencing a green-skinned toad, or a new recruit, such as a cabin boy or page. That was a half-truth at best. And then I spotted the lascivious curl to his smile, and realized… No, he was going for something _worse_. Bunk bunny. A courtesan or pet of the Captain, perhaps. In certain parts of the universe, they were treated like playthings, not people. Places like... Skylark.

This went from 'acting on an unfair assumption' to 'cruel suggestion' territory. Perhaps this was Scott's reaction to being called 'one of the Skylark Sterlings'. Doubtless, it wasn't the first time the accusation had been posed, and it might even have a grain of truth to it, which I found more than a little alarming. Also, the Second Mate was not a man to fuck with.

Blakely's pursed lips meant he bought it, and I was torn between sympathy and twisted curiosity at how he would react to the truth.

"I see," he said only. "Well. I will need to have a little one-on-one with everyone. You know, get myself established, figure out who needs my attention most."

"Mm," Scott murmured, as if he could perhaps be less interested.

"I'll need a complete list of names," he continued. "With their birthing, work histories, shift schedules if possible?"

"I imagine the First could assist with that." He seemed to sigh with boredom as we piled into the lift. Scott posed with a hip pushed out, and twirled his cane in his fingers, resting his weight on his good leg. Blakely readjusted his duffel (which no one had offered to relieve him of) from one shoulder to the other. I slipped in last, a silent sentinel in this bizarrely improvised song and dance, and pushed the button to Level 1.

"Where will I be birthing?" His eyes narrowed in impatience.

"That depends entirely on what the First and Captain think of you."

The lift stopped with an incongruously innocent 'ding!', and the doors opened to Officer Country. Scott headed straight for the First's side of the ship, and I instinctively glanced down the hall to look to the bridge.

The hatch was closed.

I did a double-take, but Scott and Blakely moved past me, not noticing. Yes, at the threshold of the bridge, a double-wide hatch shut the bridge off from the rest of the ship. There wasn't even a window to tell you what was beyond the passage, and the foreign sight made the whole hall feel claustrophobic and undistinguished…

I picked up my post at the back of the party and followed my Second and the priest who insisted on becoming one of our accursed crew.

"And when am I meeting this 'First and Captain'?" he drawled, and in answer, Scott spun on his heel to face the First's Office hatch, picking up the sharp, formal attention that Abigail favored.

"Presently." And he stood that way, back straight, arms pressed against his sides, facing forward, eyes unfocused and unseeing. It was a nice step, and I found it suitably creepy. Blakely found it annoying, judging by his sniff and duffel readjustment.

I assumed the role and knocked with an expression of forced-upon weariness. As predicted, the First Mate responded with an impatient, "Who is it?" and I answered for the party as a whole. "Doyle, Mistress, and the Second Mate. We have a candidate for the open ship chaplain birth, for your approval."

"I didn't ask for a ship chaplain," I heard someone say from the other side of the hatch, but it wasn't the First.


	22. Shift

A shiver went down my spine, and I had a paranoid thought that I'd unwittingly been given Rhea's job.

"Oh, for gods'— Come in."

I obeyed my First and opened the hatch. The Captain was scowling from the other side of the room, standing over the First who was seated at her desk, her usual bouquet of papers flowering on the desk. Long, strong legs covered in black scales ended in wicked claws, the fur tipped, blood marked tail whipping back and forth in aggravation.

Blakely was shoved in past me, and the Second followed after. Between the lot of them, it was a crowded room, and I hesitated at the door. The Captain's eyes narrowed at us, and he hissed.

"Master Sterling. Do you recall our conversation recently about disposing of useless corpses?"

I blinked, surprised he wasn't addressing me, and I saw the Second stand his ground.

"That you had no qualms with it, Captain. 'Twas only a matter of convenience." The stranger's eyes snapped from the Captain to the Second, his eyes wide and terrified, face white as flour. "I found this fellow outside the airlock. He wants the priest post."

The Captain rounded his homicidal gaze on the Coder. "Conspicuous, seeing as how that position was only posted an hour ago."

"He was very persistent, Captain." The Second sounded smug. And Blakely's legs were shaking.

A grinding of long teeth… "Get your ass back to the bridge and get this bird ready to fly in twenty."

"Aye, Captain." He moved in that direction, and I had the strange feeling this was part of a script. I looked to the First, still bent over her paperwork. She was still, her eyes unfocused before her, scowling, fists clenched.

"Do you have any managerial experience, Priest?"

"Err… Yes, Captain."

His head bobbed, and I saw his tail pat behind him. "Good. You're not useless. What are you called?"

"Blakely, Captain. Father Nicholas Blakely."

"Blakely, Master Doyle here will escort you to the galley. You will sit there and touch nothing until you are told. Am I clear?"

The priest seemed to gather his courage, hand tight on his bag as he swallowed hard. "Aye, Captain."

He waved us away. I turned without another word, heading back towards the lift. As I turned the corner, I saw Simon come to fetch him for takeoff. We moved into the lift once more and I gave him a corner to himself. For his part, he said nothing.

xxxx

…I was wondering if I should feel bad about this. But Scott had warned him.

I turned the corner of level 2, and was struck by how loud it was in the galley. Something in me stopped. A shiver, a quiet panic that I couldn't put my finger on.

Oh right. I was just assaulted there this morning.

I licked my lips and knocked on the kitchen doors, rather than the proper galley doors, and wondered if Cookie would even hear my timid plea.

But he did. The door opened to worried eyes. "Yes? Yes?"

I licked my lips again, nodding to my captive, who shifted nervously. "We have a prospective chaplain." I glanced over his shoulder, to where the crew was chattering in the galley. All of them as if they hadn't been a drunken mob so many hours ago. "Captain wants him in the galley until he's ready for him."

"Yes. Yes, of course." He spoke over me to Blakely. "I'm afraid you've missed supper, sir. We had steak and potatoes, how do you like it?"

A small smile tugged at my lips at his surprise. "Um… Mm-medium?" He readjusted his bag again.

"Just like, just like," Cookie answered. He waved to the door. "Next door round, if you please, I'll have it made in a jiffy. In a jiffy."

I watched the cook watch the chaplain follow the suggestion, and then he snapped to me again. "A _chaplain?_ What madness is this? The Captain is half-Xoac, for crying out loud. Practically a demon, to some types. And the toads are death-worshipping witches to others. This can't end well, what's he about?"

I sighed, grateful that Tim was nowhere to be seen — likely already turned in for the night. "It's a formality. From putting in that report. They said we should get a… moral officer?"

"Morale officer," he corrected.

"Right. But… barring that, a priest of some kind. So, we put up the listing out of necessity, intending to be out of here before anyone saw it. But this guy was… already there by the time we got back to the ship. It's… it's weird, actually." Very weird, now that I thought about it. I scratched my head. "To be fair, Captain was not happy. But… I don't know. Maybe he's giving him a chance."

"Or intending to dump him in space soon as we break orbit," the cook muttered. He shook his head. "Whatever. It's not my business. Nor yours." He tilted his head to the side. "You look like hell, Doyle."

I chuckled. "Thanks, Cookie."

"Seriously, though." His voice was uncharacteristically somber. "Have you seen medical yet?"

"They… Brought me someone," I muttered, gesturing to my eye. "I was on the bridge, so… It was just a patch."

"The bridge? Good. So you were safe."

"Well, I was watched. I thought I was safe here…" I looked out to the galley. Blakely had found himself a spare table, but Mary was already bringing him into the fold.

"Oh, I know, my boy, I know…" Cookie shook his head. "I'm so sorry about that, Doyle, I really am. I really am…" His eyes looked out, too, so sad and… For the first time, I considered him old. A weariness to the lines in his face that he usually wore so well. "…Funny old world, innit? How things change."

I shivered. "Funny. Right."

I ended up going back to Officer Country, to see what could be done. The First gave me a room number, and advised me to make the move to my new quarters once we were in space, but that there was nothing for me now. She was short on talk, jaw tight over the Captain's orders, which I wouldn't question. I knew that the galley would just make me nervous, and I knew that Tim would be in my bunk. With no safe haven, I found myself moving towards the bridge.

"…Confirm new crew count, lift-off in five."

"Aye aye, Captain. Confirm new crew count."

I didn't understand a lot of the chatter, but the Captain was at the helm, and Scott standing beside him. For once, the two of them were as one, not at odds. I remember arriving in this port, with the newly appointed Second Mate grumbling about marksmanship and paperwork. How curious that only days would make a difference. I pondered again Mary's comment about keeping the then-navigator "where the Captain can keep an eye on him." For all the gossip that the bridge crew would take back, would they note this change? The squirreling away of the First's pet, my dirtside wandering with the Second, the rattled new guy and a curious rapport amongst the officers. I thought idly of the suggestions box, and what the Chaplain might think of that little curiosity. I took a seat in the back, trying to keep quiet. Abigail was nowhere to be seen, and I realized that she was probably working on the Captain's little project. What I should be doing, really, and yet I wasn't so sure I wanted to be somewhere an officer wasn't right now. I watched the bridge crew go through their duties, a lot of chatter, and calling back and numbers I didn't really understand. I watched out the window as the thrusters kicked in, which I saw more than felt. Communications reported green light for take-off, and navigation was punching away at the keyboards — a much better rested looking Simon doing the duty.

"Heading?" Scott was standing without his cane for the moment, though it was just beside him.

"Heading 002, directional code 9-5-Alpha." On comms, another new girl was working, reading out the data with a waver to her voice, looking over her shoulder at the beast at the helm.

"Chaidan, Captain?"

"Just shy of, Master Sterling," the Captain replied. I watched the port of Stockerd become a myriad of building boxes before we hit the clouds and then above them. A surveillance satellite watched us cruise by, and the Second picked his cane back up and turned to go. He spotted me, then, and eyed me a moment before leaving the bridge. Clouds and sky thinned out to black, and we were in space again.

It didn't feel much different than being on earth, but I could better appreciate the subtle thrum of the engines through the floors of the ship, the quiet purr of environmental, and the background beeps of electronica. The Captain stayed at the helm, and I think I snoozed a while until someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I was surprised to find the dark-skinned girl from earlier smiling at me. "Hey. Doyle, right?"

I blinked and swallowed. Then nodded. "Yeah." My voice sounded a little croaky.

"Hey, they just called meals. You should probably get something to eat."

I cursed softly, jumping up from my seat, and my head pulsed in warning. I thanked her as I dipped out the door, and clung to the ladder down to level 2. When I got to the galley doors, it looked all abuzz, Cookie and Tim and my replacement at work to feeding the masses. Cookie spotted me and stepped aside to answer the door.

"Young Miss has already come and gone with the officers' meals," he told me with an amused twinkle in his eye, the ring on his ear sparkling in the mechanical light. "Sleeping on the bridge, were you?"

"Yeah, I… How did…? Nevermind." I eyed Tim, who was too busy doing his job to notice me. "Say, I'm going to just grab my stuff from my room real quick, and then I'll be back. Save me something hot, alright?"

"Just the same, Master Doyle, just the same!" He waved me off, and I slipped across the way to the bunk I hadn't been keeping with Tim. What few things of mine were about had been piled on my bed, making it that much easier for me to move. No love lost, it seems. I stuffed my possessions in my blanket, making a makeshift sack of it, and hauled the admittedly humble parcel over my shoulder to the lift at the end of the hall. A crew member I didn't recognize passed me by, eyeing me with curiosity, but said nothing as they went to dinner. I wiped my hands on my ship suit, feeling foolish and nervous, and rode up to Level 1.

I debated talking to the First, but I knew she was likely not going to be much better until after some sleep. I rifled in my pocket and found my room assignment stuffed in and found the room, mildly surprised to find I had a lock on my door.

"Well, crap. She didn't tell me it was locked…" My fingers hesitated, not sure what code it could be, so I tried hers. It worked, actually, and I hummed.

I got a whole room to myself. My jaw actually dropped, and I dumped my "bag" on the ground, certain this was a mistake. It was the same size as the one downstairs with Tim, but it was arranged like the Captain's, with a bed in one corner, opposite the door, and a small desk crammed to the side. I could easily put in a bookshelf if I wanted, or even some extra sitting. I knew that, foot by foot, it was just as small as my last one, and the bedroom I'd had at my mother's had been a good deal more spacious, and yet I felt like it was a palace, perhaps because it was something entirely my own. No roommate to bark at me to turn off my timer, no one else's laundry to step over but my own. Hell, I could have a girl in here if I so desired. I was an adult, now. I could do that. It was a surreal feeling, and yet what I did with this taste of adulthood was to shove all of my things in a corner, and curl into bed. For ten minutes, I just curled up in my old, likely thirdhand cotton cover, and stared at the wall. The whirring of the environmental was all I heard until a grumbling at my stomach reminded me that I was skipping dinner while I was lounging in this oasis of independence.

Dinner was some kind of pasta dish of a bright pink color that I wasn't too sure about but tasted divine. Whatever fruit they used was a bit more pungent than the tumats I was used to, but Cookie had spiced it to perfection. A subtle knock at the galley door and I was slipped a box of pasta with freshly baked bread, a small salad, and also a suggestion box that I had been neglecting. As I ate in the comfort of my own room, I flipped through the suggestion cards and actually found three cards that weren't incendiary comments about the officers.

One was from the Chaplain, with a list of the information he had asked the Second for, this time on paper. Another asked if the Chaplain would be having weekly services, and when they would be. A third asked for more bandages in Science.

I reported these to the First, who by this point was more begrudging about the company. She set the Chaplain requests to the side, and made a note, presumably, to stock up on first aid supplies when we hit port next.

"Thank you, Doyle."

"Erm… Mistress?"

"Yeah."

"I… I wanted to say thanks. For the birth."

She blinked up at me and raised a brow. "You're welcome?"

"Well, I mean… I know we have a lot of crew, and… Well, I'm honored I got my own place to sleep. That's… I wasn't expecting that."

She snorted. "Well, I'm hardly going to have you sleeping with Abigail. No offense intended, but she's of an age."

"Oh, no, I understand," I said quickly. "I'm just… I didn't expect to get a room of my own."

"Well… Like it or not, Doyle, you're an officer. It has its privileges, just as it has its obligations." She gave me a wry smile. "Least I can do is make sure you can have a safe place to hide when shit hits the fan."

…There was the safety issue. I touched the back of my neck, feeling more like a nuisance again. "I… I shouldn't have gone down there. I know that now."

"Hey." She held out a hand to stop me. "Don't. It's not your fault. You have made a point to me that the dynamic here isn't exactly right. The Captain has his own ways of dealing with mutiny, but… Well, maybe your way has some merit, too. But it'll get worse before it gets better. And hey, who knows?" She made a rude sound. "Maybe this new chaplain will help implement some helpful change."

"Err… No offense, Mistress, but I sincerely doubt that."

We shared a smile, and she waved me off.

"Go to bed, Doyle. Get some rest. I'm sure sleeping on the bridge isn't exactly comfortable. And don't worry about breakfast. I'll have Abigail take care of it."

I nodded. "Yes, Mistress." I stood and turned to go.

"Oh, and Doyle?"

"Hmm?"

I looked back to see her scribble something down and hand me a note. "Instructions. To change your lock code."

"Oh… Thank you."

"No problem. Just… Know that the Captain does have override codes to break in if we need to. Don't make me have to do that, alright?"

The thought was mildly unnerving, but I tried to keep it abstract. In case of fire or something, maybe. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Rest up."

…It didn't help, but I went to my room anyway. I reset my code number to my mother's birthday, something I knew no one could steal from my file. I felt a little paranoid in doing so, but a little safer, too. I rearranged my things in a semblance of order and crawled into bed. I worried that troubles would keep me awake, but I was delightfully surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, a little bit of love in here for Nathan Lowell, author of the Traders Tales series. I have listened to the entire series by podiobook, and Double Share is my favorite, which is probably obvious if you read this through. There's a lot of Lowell, some of Jack London's The Sea Wolf, and similar styles of nautical memoirs, but I've updated this one to the space age. My dad is actually a big fan of this one, insists I finish it, so... Here we go.


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